Coins of Memory
by Laurnarose
Summary: A Deryni Tale set in the Kingdom of Gwynedd from the world of Katherine Kurtz. Between the stories of Camber of Culdi and King Kelson are years of Deryni persecution and Torenthi wars. I wish to offer a tale of action and romance for two Deryni, Sir Washburn and Jessamyn, and their adventures to find each other and survive the culture in which they are born.
1. Chapter 1

**Coins of Memory**

_A Deryni Tale set in the Kingdom of Gwynedd from the world of Katherine Kurtz._

_Between the stories of Camber of Culdi and King Kelson are years of Deryni persecution and Torenthi wars. I wish to offer a tale of action and romance for two Deryni, Sir Washburn and Jessamyn, and their adventures to find each other and survive the culture in which they are born. _

There are a few special worlds and stories that remain eternal for the men and women who read them. The set of Deryni series, written by the talented Katherine Kurtz are a group of tales that can be read over and over, and thoroughly enjoyed with each repeated reading. For thirty years, I have been a fan of the exploits of Alaric Morgan, Richenda Morgan, Rhys Thuryn, and Camber of Culdi, among numerous others. The words I offer here are a culmination of my ideas for honoring the beloved characters of the Deryni world.

**Chapter 1**** - JK 973 ****1****st**** Coin **

_Kingdom of Gwynedd- Autumn 973_

Smoke-filled lungs woke the small child from her suffocating nightmare. A startled scream of panic came to an abrupt end as the girl gasped for air. She gagged on the smoke, awakening to the realization that it was no longer just a part of her dreams; it was real. The acrid air filled her eyes with water and blurred her sight. She blinked the tears away, and still the heavy darkness prevailed. There was a disturbing scent of campfire in the air, while a deep rumbling vibration echoed through the floors. A sharp crack of wood shifted over stone, causing the child to sit up in her bed, fully alert.

A flash of light penetrated the dark. The brilliant radiance filled the child's bedroom and then retreated. The darkness returned and the young girl quested for answers. That could not have been her mama's hand-fire. That had a soft green glow with a caring aura. This light had been a brilliance of yellow/red, awash with heat. It burned the air as it passed. It left an ember high up, near the ceiling. The child's eyes opened wide, as the ember flickered and glowed with an orange iridescence through the haze overhead.

Confused, she watched the spark of light as it grew in size. It sizzled on the upper corner of the tapestry that hung at the head of her bed. It was her favorite weaving, the one she had requested her mother place there on her last birthday, that happy day she had turned a full six years old. The image was of a pair of unicorns on a pastoral grassy node, grazing beside a peaceful lake. The spark ignited the full upper edge of the wool with a fiery glow. The flames grew quickly. They burst from the images of leaves on the once summer time trees. They crawled down the trunks, and threatened the white innocent unicorns. All in a terrifying flash, the unicorns turned into fiery black nightmares.

The child threw herself back from her bed and cowered on the floor. She looked up again to see the whole wool tapestry alive, dancing with wild flame. The six year old stared at it transfixed. _This should not be_. Before her eyes, her beloved unicorns were devoured forever by fire. The flames grew, danced, and kicked their heels out from the wall. They whirled in colors of gold, red, and blue, reaching down to her sleeping covers.

Disbelief turned to fear, and the girl called out for her mother. She held her breath for a long moment, waiting for the pair of secure arms that always soothed her fears away. The arms of her mother did not appear. The heat pushed her back far from the bed, as far back as the wall would allow. Now the fire danced across her bed covers, the flames leaping upward with delight.

At last, she heard a distant voice calling out her name. "Jessa!"

"Here! I'm here!" she screamed out, holding back the panic. Through the smoke filled room, she crawled to her closed bedroom door. The handle was high above her in the midst of the thick air. Standing up to reach it, Jessa caught the smoke in her throat, and she retched from lack of breathable air. She desperately grabbed for the metal door latch, but her hands flinched back as the metal burned her fingers. It came to Jessa in a horrid feeling of dismay that the thick oaken door had become hot, and smoke climbed upward from the slit opening at the bottom.

Fear turned to terror. She was trapped. Fire was close at hand on the door's other side, while before her, flames consumed the far wall of her room. The heat of it baked the tears off her cheeks. Crouching down, she could not think of any escape. A desperate scream escaped her lips and the stream of tears finally wet her face.

In her mind, a voice called out once more, searching for her. "_Jessa! Where are you?_"

She focused her world into that mental link, grasping tightly to the strength of her father's mind beyond the door. _"Papa, here! In my room. Papa! Help me!"_

"_I am coming," _he replied. _"Stay back from the door." _In moments,the door swung wide, with flames leaping through the opening. The green glow of her father's magical ward swept the flames aside and engulfed his daughter within its shimmering protection. A pair of swift strong arms surrounded her waist and lifted her high to the man's chest. His arms held her tight and his mind soothed her fears as he ran back out of her room. Over his shoulder, Jessa could see all the things within her room ignite in devouring flame.

"Jessamyn, love of mine, look at me! No, don't look anywhere but at me." Jessa's gaze turned from the inferno all around, and looked deeply into her father's gray eyes. Her trust in him was complete. "Good! We are getting out of here! I have you tight." He ran to the middle of the playroom, past large dancing flames, and then dashed into the main family areas where the fire was less intense. Even here, growing flames carried the searing heat high into the ceiling, threatening her favorite tapestries of majestic castles with knights on their horses in full splendor. The house moaned from the torment and seemed to cry in its own pain. Jessamyn buried her face in her father's shoulder to shut the horror out.

Lord Jacuth Kyriell caressed Jessamyn's mind. He was Deryni and master of magic. In the little girl's worshiping eyes, there was nothing her father could not do. Her mother told stories of how she had first meet Jacuth at his knighting in the extravagant court of the Hort de Orsal. How the tall Tralian Knight instantly won her heart. With patience and devotion, he spent the two following years winning both the permission and the trust of her parents to gain her hand in marriage. Elzia and Jacuth wed on the cliffs of the Isle of Orsal, in full pageantry of the Horthy tradition. Over the next eleven years, within the walls of the summer Tralian Castle, the couple happily raised their five children. Jessamyn could remember the time when their home looked over the sea, and gulls played in the air near her window. That was three years ago, before her father was summoned to return to the land of his birth, back to this Kingdom of Gwynedd. That was when Jessa first heard her father called 'Healer to the King'. This king she had met, with his graying black hair and shining silver eyes. He had told her how proud he was of her father, and how her father had saved him from horrible pains.

The grateful king had given her father this large estate on the edge of the wide Molling River overlooking farmlands and soft sloping hills. The manor house was stone on the ground floor, with the two next floors above white washed with brown exposed cross beams under sharp slanted roof-lines of blue slate. Her mother called it her country cottage, referring to the privacy the manor afforded for Lord Kyriell's family. Very different from the castle by the sea, where the gulls used to fly.

"Papa, where's mama? Please, can you get her too?" the girl asked, trying to be brave; her mother would not want to see her cry.

"Dear love, your mother is safe; she and your brothers and sisters are waiting for us outside."

"Then we must go there too," Jessa said, wanting to get away from the burning flames and be with her whole family once more.

Jacuth smiled at that and patted her long braided blond hair. "We're going there now, my love."

The Deryni lord arched his arcane walking ward of glowing emerald further out away from their bodies. The deep green sphere pushed the roaring flames aside. The powerful spell of the walking ward required a skilled tactician to maintain the necessary degree of focus. The ward moved as the maker moved, forward or back. The fire curved around the arcing edge, the flames shifted aside and cleared her father's path. He smiled at his daughter when she purposefully linked her mind to his and copied his focus to amplify the effects of defense from the searing heat.

She was always doing that, following his mind and copying what he did. If she only knew how few practitioners of the magical arts could master this intensity! Yet here at six years old, if he did it, she would follow. The things he could teach her were boundless. They had discovered she was a healer in the first days after her birth when even as a newborn her energies had responded to her father's healing of her mother after childbirth.

Jessa smiled, reading her father's mind through their link. It was hard for him to hide his thoughts and feelings from her.

Jacuth carried Jessa across the family room. He descended the flight of stone stairs that opened onto the first floor's main hall. The huge room below was in turmoil. The oak tables were flipped over onto their sides; chairs and benches were smashed and piled high. The tapestries had been torn from the walls, tossed onto the wreckage, and then set aflame. This massive bonfire scorched the center of the great hall, igniting the ceiling woods, and sending the leaping flames upward into the guest rooms above. Even in Jacuth's moment of hesitation, the flames grew and swirled in a firestorm of energy careening around the room, seeking anything new to set ablaze. Their escape, the great entrance far across the room, tantalized the pair, while the firestorm threatened to consume them if they dared to pass. Jacuth strengthened his warding and stepped into the burning hell.

Protected from the killing heat by the glinting energy shield, the Deryni wielder of magic made it a third of the way across the great room when the cracks and groaning began in the ceiling above. The center ceiling beams collapsed. The terrifying rip of timber and stone splintered and crashed section by section, like children's building blocks being toppled by an angry sibling. Fire, smoke, and debris blew outward across the stone floor. The lord of the manor raced away from the fiery explosion. The shielding had been cast for protection from the elements of heat and flame; it had not the makeup or power to stop the physical forces of his home coming down upon their heads. Chunks of ash and wood penetrated the green shield knocking Jacuth to his knees. His focus crumbled, and the arcane sphere dissipated. The full strength of the heat and smoke filled both their lungs.

Together, father and daughter choked and coughed as they crawled to the north wall where the only other exit lay. These doors led into the single story stone kitchen and the servants' quarters at the back of the manor. Jessa's father pulled himself up to the door; he placed Jessa between himself and the wall, protecting her from the heat of the room. He jerked the handle on the door, but unbelievably it was barred shut. Holding her shift over her mouth to breathe, Jessa followed her father's focus as he desperately scanned the wooden frame, searching for the latch spring that was holding the door against their passing.

_Who locked this?_ her father asked himself. A mental lift of a bar and a twist of the latch, and the door came free from the lock. Jacuth kicked the thick oak door wide with his booted foot. He picked up his daughter and raced through the exit. With his free hand, Jacuth slammed the door closed behind them. Father and daughter retched for air after escaping the inferno of the main house. Their burning eyes watered to clear the smoke away. Still half blind, Jacuth stepped forward, and then he stopped, transfixed by who stood in the kitchen before him.

* * *

Richenda Morgan opened her clasped hands and stopped the images displayed within the memory coin. She took in a deep clear breath knowing the smoke was in the memory, and not in the air that she breathed. Even so, a moment passed before her uneasy tension relaxed. The visions embedded in the coin gave a clear accounting of another's memories, the memories of a child in the distant past.

Richenda took the coin between thumb and fingers and looked at it closer. It was a silver mark of the House of Cynfyn. The coin was not a form of money, but rather a token of the noble house, often given as a medal of honor or as a reward for deeds done. As often as not, unknown to the humans that carried them, these coins held magical messages sent from one Deryni to another.

The Cynfyn coin was a tad larger than the largest coin of real monetary value. The coin in her hand was embossed with the Stag of Cynfyn on one side, and engraved on the opposite side with a pair of initials and a number: _JK 973 1__st_. Richenda determined that the initials must be for whom the memory was imprinted. A child named Jessamyn Kyriell. The number had to be a date stamp of 973. That made the memory on the coin a hundred and fifty-two years old. Many generations had passed since the coin had been enchanted. There were four coins in all, with varying dates and a different set of initials. The four coins were also marked 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th, delineating them as a set and the order in which they should be viewed.

Richenda fingered a loose strand of her red-gold hair back from her eyes, and pushed the unruly lock under the gold circlet holding her silk veil in place. She had discarded the pretense of her position as mistress of the house by dressing without embellishment in a deep green plush surcote with an ash grey under gown of the softest wool. The color of the dress contrasted with her blue eyes but it warmed the blush on her soft round cheeks.

In her mid-twenties, Richenda Morgan was a loving wife and mother. She was the wife of Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn. She could not have asked for a more devoted husband or a man more highly respected within the Kingdom of Gwynedd. Alaric had proven to her that true love really did exist. Her first arranged marriage had left her widowed from a man who had abandoned both his wife and his king. When Richenda was devastated and alone, Alaric had taken her into his protection and care, not just herself, but her first young son as well. Her second marriage was a match of love. A daughter was born in the first year and then a son just beyond their third anniversary. Alaric was a wonderful papa to her three children and a loving man to her.

At the birth of Alaric's first son, the duke abdicated the honorable title of Earl of Lendour to Kelric Morgan, thus making Kelric the 16th Earl of Lendour. At five months of age, the earl slept peacefully in the crib next to Richenda's chair. With the resurrection of the Lendour title separated from the Corwyn title, it had come to mind that Alaric should reopen the mountain estates for courtly retreats away from the Crown City of Rhemuth.

In traveling from their home in Coroth to Rhemuth for King Kelson's nineteenth birthday, the duke and duchess stopped at Castle Cynfyn in the west Lendour Mountains to see the condition of the Lendour estate. It had been fifty years since a titled earl had used this magnificent old castle as a seat of the earldom. Alaric's grandfather had closed the earl's private rooms when he joined his house with the Duchy of Corwyn and had moved his governing seat to the palace at Coroth in the south of Corwyn. For a short time in Alaric's younger years, his father and mother had moved back into this hall. However, with the tragedy of his mother's death, followed too few years later by the passing of his father, Alaric had seldom returned to the castle's opulent old rooms. Surprisingly, the proud residence of Cynfyn had kept the castle proper, with its gardens and surrounding curtain walls, in good repair. After the initial formal gatherings, the duke and duchess found time to explore the private rooms and the sealed vaults of the old structure. So here they were, portraying archivists, playing in historical records, and rediscovering family heirlooms.

Currently, Alaric was down in the armory, acting like a boy who had opened up a treasure box. Every now and again, his mind would echo to his wife, telling of the wondrous craftsmanship of armor, swords, and grand tools of war to be found. It appeared that the house of Cynfyn prized quality in all material things.

_There is a trait that has not changed in two hundred years_, Richenda thought.

Richenda knew some of Lendour's tumultuous history. The castle was original built by the conquering King Festil I from the stolen wealth of the murdered Haldane Kings of Gwynedd. Festil was the second son of the King of Torenth from the hostile kingdom on Gwynedd's eastern border. The castle was built as a playground for the sons and grandsons of Festil before they each became kings in turn. Decades later, the titled seat of Lendour was granted to a Deryni nobleman, Lord Cynfyn. Under the House of Cynfyn, the small earldom redefined its purpose to producing high quality goods and chivalrous men. The best artisans of leather tooling and armor smithing moved within the castle walls. The kingly stables continued to breed the highest quality imported R'Kassi stallions and mares from the far east. The mountain warriors gathered for training in the skills of knighthood. They were tall, robust, and loyal to the chivalrous Lords of Cynfyn.

In time, the Festil Kings grew too abusive and greedy for the Earl of Lendour to support. When rumors came of a surviving Haldane of the old kings' line, the house of Cynfyn quietly joined with the charismatic Deryni practitioner, Camber MacRorie, the Earl of Culdi. Lendour lent its arms to the restoration of the Haldane to the throne. From that time forward, the heavy cavalry of Lendour maintained its loyalty to the restored line of Haldane Kings, and they continued to be there whenever the peace of Gwynedd was threatened. This bond was unbreakable, even through to Duke Alaric Morgan who was named Kings Champion and closest friend to the current Haldane King.

For the last two days, while Alaric played in the stables and the armory, the duchess had found herself within the private offices of the old earl's, sifting through the Cynfyn family archives, questing for personal family history, and seeking out stories and artifacts lost in the passage of time. Little was remembered of the Cynfyn legacy after Alaric's uncle had died without a male heir. Alaric's mother, heiress to a duchy and an earldom, too had died at a far too young an age to be able to pass the family stories down. Richenda did not know if the coins before her held any answers, but she sensed they were important in telling of a time lost in the records.

The polished onyx box that held the four coins had first caught her attention due to the richness of the numerous rubies faceted along the black sides. When the duchess lifted the box off the high shelf, she saw the shell inlay decorating the lid. The name _Washburn _was written with mosaic pearlescence into the ebony finish. She found this box among the belongings of Muir, the 8th Earl of Lendour. It had no mechanical lock; instead, she discovered it was magically sealed. This intrigued Richenda even more. Her husband had shown her the family spell, one that had already opened several items in the archive. She used the opening spell and the lock had released the lid, allowing it to open on its hinges.

With the box opened, her eyes had searched inside, finding a white silk velvet pouch embroidered with the red rearing stag of the house of Cynfyn. The fragile pouch was heavy, containing the four coins. Beneath the pouch had lain a folded page of parchment. Oddly, the page was empty, but for a wax seal at the bottom with an Earl of Lendour's signet embedded in the wax. All of these items were now laid out on the table before the duchess. Curiously, the beginnings of the first memory coin had nothing to do with the family name. What would she find if she finished reviewing this coin and what of the other three coins placed with it? Why did they seem to be so highly treasured?

It was the discovery of a healer that drove Richenda's curiosity. Wasn't that why she was reviewing the archives in the first place? To find some hidden answer to a long asked question. Maybe here was the solution for which she searched. She would see what had become of the father and the daughter in the home that surrounded them in flames. She would see what had become of the two Deryni with the healing talent.

The duchess focused her thoughts and cast the spell that would resume the telling of the memories placed there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - JK 973 1****st**** Coin **

The haze in the kitchen air was far more breathable than the inferno that Jessa and her father just escaped. The young girl held tight to her father's shoulder, afraid that the fire would blast through the solid door at his back. But it was not the fire behind the kitchen wall that held her father's intense stare. Jacuth's eyes locked on the new danger in front of him, and he weighed his choices. Could he make the side exit without a fight? He did not think so. He pulled Jessa close to his chest, his grip around her firm, and his back straightened with a warrior's alarm. Still half-gasping for breathable air, Jacuth stood resolute, transfixed by who stood between himself and the way outside to safety.

Jessa followed her father's stare. Her eyes widened with surprise. Before her, in the middle of the kitchen, stood several people in common attire. She counted seven men and a woman at the back, each carried an axe, a hammer, or a long knife. Between them, lying on the floor, were several motionless bodies of the manor house servants. Jessa could not understand why no one ran away. Why was everyone frozen, some lying down and some just standing there? Why was no one escaping from the fire engulfing the main house? Why did this man standing the nearest have a wild look in his eyes? He stepped nearer. In his hand, he uplifted a bloodied sword, and then he waved it violently toward her papa.

Jessa remembered this man with the heavy sword. Earlier today, she had been with her mother in the great room as a group of peasants from the neighboring lands marched into the manor demanding justice. At the front of the mob was this very same man who had then carried in his arms the limp body of a girl. The next two men behind him had been the magistrate and a tenant farmer, whose hands were tied behind his back. The peasant mob following the magistrate called out curses and horrid accusations, throwing small rocks at the tied up farmer. Baron Jacuth Kyriell took immediate possession of the accused man, and opened an inquiry in the manor's large staging room. The farmer was from Lord Kyriell's upper north field. The man for three years had worked the land with diligent care. The neighboring farmers did not know him well. What they knew was that the girl had disappeared while she watched her flock of sheep on the hill. After a day of searching, her body was found in this farmer's field. The magistrate had arrived in time to save the farmer from a hanging.

The mob of peasants grew restless and angry as Lord Kyriell tried to sort through the details. When words were not enough to prove the farmer's innocence, the Deryni lord exposed his heritage. Before all assembled, Jacuth used his Deryni powers of truth reading to prove the farmer blameless of the crime. With the same magical powers, he questioned several others, but still the truth to the crime could not be found.

Baron Jacuth Kyriell had not considered the prejudices of the peasant folk or the dangers of using magic. His own household held few such fears, but these common folk of the bordering estate became agitated. They cursed the house of the Deryni, causing Jacuth's loyal men-at-arms to disperse the mob of commoners out of the manor, and back down the road away from the estate.

Supper was tranquil enough, no one at first spoke what was upon his mind. Their liege was Deryni; the rumors were proven true. At the ending of the meal, it took only one voice issuing an insult to set the freemen of Kyriell's own estate into a surge of raised voices. Some condemned and some defended the traits of their estate lord. In a need to protect her youngest daughter, Elzia had put Jessa down early to bed with an innocent spell to let the child sleep through the noise below.

That spell had devastating results.

Jessa had not woken to the turmoil in the great room, or to the return of the angry peasants, swollen in their numbers, and fierce in their fear of Deryni. The little girl had not heard the horrific sounds of the battle below, nor the whooping and cheering with the destruction of the main room, nor the fire at its terrifying beginning.

Thus in the midst of a late rescue, Jessa realized these things as she clung to the tunic of her father and saw with his mind's eye that this man before him was the one that began the blaze. At the start of the fire, Jacuth's men rescued the family of Deryni from the peasants' surge of hate. It was no one's fault that, in the confusion, Jessa had been left behind.

"Aye, look wha' my desire has trapped. You are dead, Deryni!" The intensity of the sword man's hatred filled the air. The huge man pointed his thick blade directly at Lord Kyriell; his moment for revenge had come. The dead girl's father used his long reach to force Jacuth back to the kitchen wall.

"I have done you no harm, nor none to your daughter! No one in my service deserves your wrath!" the lord of the manor yelled out. "You've had your way; you have destroyed my house and my people. Be gone with you before you face the anger of our king, for I am in his service and under his protection," Lord Kyriell proclaimed standing tall in his declaration.

For a moment, just a moment, Jessa thought the men would turn to go.

"Deryni scum," howled the insane woman at the back. "You killed my daughter and you used trickery to hide it. Your kind does not deserve to live." She hefted her blood soaked cudgel above her head, screaming a list of obscenities. Her husband laughed at the nobleman's vulnerability. It seemed not to matter that the Deryni lord was a trusted vassal of the King of Gwynedd. His daughter was dead; he intended retribution for that crime.

Calmly, Baron Kyriell lowered his own daughter to the floor. He cast his thoughts into Jessa's mind. "_Jessamyn Kyriell, be brave_," his inner voice soothingly stated. _"Stay just behind me. No matter what happens, you need to be right behind me. Understand?" _Hiding her fear, the girl followed her father's orders. She took a handful of his healer green cloak and did not let go.

Jessa watched her father draw his curved short sword from its jeweled scabbard. The blade looked so thin compared to the thick sword in the hand coming at him. Jacuth stepped out from the wall in an open space between the cooking tables. He stood ready to defend against the oncoming attack.

The broadsword swung down with a strong force, and the man screamed, "You're dead!"

Lord Kyriell blocked the first attack, surprised by his opponent's skill. The next blows were fast and strong, proving the man had soldier training. Jacuth could do nothing more than deflect the attacks and wait for an opening. Jessa watched as her father maintained his defense with his thin refined blade. The soldier's sword, by contrast, was heavy; his moves were strong, causing the little girl to cower behind her father in fear. On the fifth stroke, Lord Kyriell found his advantage when the soldier recovered too slowly from his pressing advance. The nobleman ducked under the upheld arm, swiped across, and cut skin through the rent in the man's leather vest. With his left hand, Jacuth grabbed Jessa and lifted her off her feet. He turned decisively behind his opponent and stabbed upward into his unprotected back. Surprised, the peasant soldier garbled a word and then collapsed forward onto the floor. The healing part of Jacuth's mind rebelled at the death. The moment was short, as the others answered this killing of their leader with a mad rush.

Jessa clung to her father's cloak, doing her best to stay clear of the fight. Farm axes and hammers clashed against her papa's sword. Two men fell away, and Jacuth stepped around a table, getting closer to the outer door. A great rumble of crumbling stone reverberated through the room, followed by a crash of the upper manor wall falling outward onto the roof overhead. Parts of the kitchen ceiling tore away, raining roof tiles and flaming debris onto the floor. Canvas sacks stacked against the wall caught fire, and sent flames into the remaining rafters.

Amidst this great distraction, Jacuth grabbed his daughter's hand and ran toward the exit.

The enemy jumped at the child, grabbing her free arm. With a fierce hold, a man yanked her back from her father's grasp. Jessa screamed as her arms were stretched taut, her shoulders near to bursting. The man kicked her off her feet, ripping her hand from her father's grasp. She fell to the floor, watching in horror as a hammer swung down to smash her head. Her father in a protective rampage jumped toward his daughter; the speed of his sword was a blur. The howl of the enemy echoed through the room as the hammer flew away over Jessa. The man's arm, nearly severed, jerked up to defend Jacuth's next strike. The man crumpled to the floor before the child's eyes. Jessa screamed and her papa went mad, his thin sword slicing the enemy in his path. How dare they threaten his child! From her father's rage, another man fell face down to the floor.

The last two peasants attacked together, one with a large axe, the other with a long double-edged knife. The knife-man dodged in, then fainted back, allowing the axe-man time for a full swung at Jacuth's neck. Lord Kyriell dropped below the axe, coming up under the swing, stabbing the axe-wielding man in the heart. But the knife-man was there, his dagger swiftly dodging into Jacuth's open side. Jacuth kicked upward, catching the enemy's arm only after the blade had cut flesh. His boot slammed against the arm bone; it gave a defining crack. Jacuth's mind screamed out as the peasant's knife was ripped from his side.

Jessa screamed aloud at the sight of her father falling to his knees. His face paled, and his eyes stared, stunned. His voice quivered as he yelled out, "Run, Jessa, Run!" The daughter's protective love brought her to her father's side. Her healing senses flared as her hands reached for the open wound. She stifled a cry as her fingers pressed over the warm, wet mass. The touch sent Jacuth's eyes rolling upward, and he fell forward, his face pressed to the floor.

The six year old screamed at her father to wake up. Having seen her father heal, she pressed her fingers into his side, throwing all her love into the gushing wound. She knew nothing of healing; she was too young to be taught. Yet her link with her father was desperately strong. She took herself into a trance as she had been shown and searched for a tendril of consciousness to wake her father. She needed him to show her what to do. She called him time and time again, each call more desperate.

If it was healing or just love, she would never know, but his mind stirred and his body gasped from the pain. She was there, full of tears, letting him grasp the energies of her soul to give him strength. He coughed up blood and could hardly breathe. But Jessa's love empowered him, allowing his own healing trance to delve deep and find the keys to heal himself. His daughter went with him, giving him the balance to put the pain aside. With her strength, he found his focus. She poured her soul into his. Miraculously, he found the balance point in her delicate long fingers, using them to heal his wound. She experienced a healing, feeling the tissue beneath her fingers mend. She pulled her fingers free and pressed her flat palm against his side. The muscle and skin beneath her hands closed and became whole.

Jessa moved her hands aside, staring in amazed belief, only the energy drain had been too much, and her papa lost awareness again. He did not see the roof overhead dropping bits of flame and ash, nor hear the groan from the weight of the tiles on the weakened beams.

"Papa, papa, wake up!" the girl screamed, her hands pulling at his shoulder. Very slowly, Jacuth revived. His daughter urged him to move, but his mind was exhausted.

"_I love you, my sweet," _his voice said in her mind as he managed to lift himself to his knees. Wobbling, he placed a booted foot out to stand, just as the roof overhead gave a deafening sound. The beam in full flame let loose from the wall and crushed down on the pair of healers. Jacuth shoved his daughter away as a burning beam slammed him in the back and knocked him down to the floor. Jessa was pelted with splinters of wood, hot tiles and ash. She threw up her hands to protect her head. When she looked up, her father lay still under the fallen roof. She grabbed her father's hand and pulled at him to make him move. When he did not, she touched his face with her fingers and demanded that he wake up. He neither moved nor woke, the beam having taken his life force in one swift moment.

Jessa did not understand. She drove her mind into a trance, but her father's face relaxed, his body slumped, and his mind was quiet. She screamed aloud, her arms hugging his back. Calling "Papa" and crying fierce tears, she laid her cheek against his face and ignored the flames that engulfed his cloak. The flames touched her clinging hands, and climbed up her sleeves. With a wailing scream, she let the flames burn her arms, but nothing would make her let go of the father she loved. Where he went, she would follow; he had always been so proud of her when she did this. At six years old, what more could a child want, than to follow her father in her love for him?

That love was stolen from her when a woman's arms grabbed her feet and pulled her from the man that owned her heart. Her body was dragged far across the cold stone floor, away from the flames. A wool cloak was slapped across her sleeves, eliminating the fire that had come away with her.

"What are you doing?" yelled the surviving man. His right arm, which he held tight to his chest, was off angle. His left arm darted around the dead lord, grabbed the jeweled sword that lay close to his shoulder and then snatched the glittering silver chains off the nobleman's neck. A crazed look of greed and pain washed across the peasant's face as he stuffed the items into a bag on the floor. He hefted the bag and started toward the door. "Dharma! Leave her! The roof is coming down! I'll not wait for you!"

"They murdered my daughter, and he just murdered my husband!" the woman howled at the departing man's back. "Marat, wait!" Determined, she dragged the full weight of the child a yard further, before realizing Marat was gone. Dharma grabbed another swath of green wool from around the throat of a dead servant and flipped the fabric over the child's shivering body. With a twist of the cloak, the hateful Dharma encased Jessa firmly with her burned arms crushed to her chest. She knotted the corners of the wool tight, ensuring that resistance was impossible. In a sudden panic as more roof crashed down, Dharma lifted the bundle to her shoulder and ran after the man with the bag of stolen goods.

"You are my revenge," the mad peasant woman growled in Jessa's ear. "I'll show you the torment of my loss for the rest of your days." She ran out through the door, which Jessa had once thought would hold freedom. The last of the two destroyers of the country home ran away from the burning manor, neither giving a second thought to the death and devastation they left behind.

They ran, unseen, to the stables, throwing a bridle and saddle precariously over the head and back of a stout palfrey. With only one hand, Marat was too slow, until Dharma threw Jessa to the side and saddled the horse herself. Jessa tried to squirm away, but all cocooned she could barely inch along. Marat's big boot slammed her body to the floor.

"You're coming with us," he growled.

Trapped, Jessa tried to calm her mind; she tried to find her focus. Just one mental call, to anyone in mind's reach, and they would save her when they heard her. In her pain and grief, her focus was gone. She could barely breathe. Just when she thought maybe she had touched someone's mind, the mean man grabbed her, and tossed her up across the horse's neck over the bag of spoils already tied to the saddle. A quick lash of leathers, and she was as secure as the bag that her head rested upon. Marat climbed a box and threw his leg over the saddle. Secured in his seat, he helped Dharma climb to the palfrey's back behind him. With a savage kick, he jabbed the horse's sides, producing a gallop as they burst out of the barn door. They sped away from the huge inferno of the manor house burning wildly at the top of a hill.

Her head hanging down, barely able to see, Jessa spied only a few survivors standing at the opposite side of her home. In the blur of motion, she could not identify her mother. She called out, but her lungs could not fill and her mind's focus was gone. She was emotionally drained and physically infirm. They would have no way to know that it was she who was stolen, like treasure, from a wealthy lord's destroyed home.

In shock and despair, the child tried to escape her prison; she wiggled and squirmed but could not get free. The man laughed and whipped her wool-protected buttocks with the ends of his reins. "You've no means of escape, Deryni. Try anything and I will kill you." Then he laughed. "You'll wish I had. Burns like that don't heal well, ya know. I just may need to cut off those damaged hands to save your life." When he laughed again, the cruel woman, Dharma, laughed with him.

Shock overcame grief, and terror overwhelmed apathy. A life envisioned without hands was a horror worse than death. Even at her tender age, her father had always boasted of her long delicate fingers and the power that transferred through them. She knew she would die without her hands. From the fire, they were burnt and raw. They would cut off the damage and leave her helpless. She would have wished herself dead, if a six year old was able to ponder such things. Instead, she knew she had to save herself. She had to save her hands; there was no other choice.

With naive determination, she searched for the focus to start her mind down to that level her father had pulled her only a short time before. It took a great deal of effort before she found an inner peace that allowed her to go where she needed to be. Down to where it was nothing but her mind and her injured hands. Instinct was one thing, but she did not know how to use her own abilities to heal. She only knew that she had to save her hands in some way. Panic nearly wrenched her focus free at that instant. Then, a miraculous ghostly presence, an angel, hovered before her eyes. His two large hands soothed her stricken mind, and cradled her face. She looked up into grey fathomless eyes. He seemed so like her father. She did not understand. _"Father, is that you?"_ The wise presence smiled serenely, then bent his will into her mind and showed her the means of healing she had the potential for, but not the training. Energies surged from him and tingled down both her arms and into her fingers. The surreal angel's hands caressed her face once more. With his leaving, she succumbed to exhaustion and fainted away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 -**** JK 973 ****1****st**** Coin **

Dawn lit the eastern sky when the rogue pair of peasants stopped to rest the horse in a grove of apple trees. Without concern for her well-being, the man named Marat, left Jessa tied over the horse's neck while he had the widowed peasant woman clean and dress his wounded arm in cloth torn from her shift. They rested against a tree, and ate from the pickings of the ripening fruit while Jessa's head dangled low, her eyes watching them.

"Make her look away." Dharma insisted. She looked dirty and haggard after the past day's grief-filled insanity and the hard nights ride.

"Ah, so I can kill her now?" Marat offered up with a disgusted remark. "You could have left her and saved us a lot of trouble. I suppose I'll have to bury her in this field or just leave her for the wolves. She's useless, you can see that now, can't you?" He pulled the dagger out of his belt with his good hand and waved it at Jessa's head, "You don't want this one. She won't replace your daughter. Just say the word and let's be done with her." The knife came close to the helpless child's neck. The cold edge touched her skin. In fear, Jessa whimpered, unable to pull away.

"No!" Dharma called out, raising her hand to stay the knife. "I'm keeping her; she's mine."

Marat just shrugged and lifted his knife to cut instead the leathers binding Jessa to the horse; and then he let her fall, unaided, to the ground. "Killing her would be a mercy. Burns like hers don't heal well; she'll likely be dead in a week from fever anyway. You'll be saving her the agony of it all." He walked over to a boulder and proceeded to sharpen his dagger against it.

Jessa tensed as Dharma bent over her bundled-up form. "Girl, you do as you're told, and I'll protect you from Marat. Show me your hands, and let's see the damage." The woman pulled at the knotted wool and unwrapped it from around the girl. She stepped back with a gasp as Jessa came free from her entrapment. The girl was attempting to move away when Marat came back brandishing his weapon near her face. The snicker of cruel intent left his face as he stared down at the girl's hands and arms. The skin was soft pink from elbow to fingers, not a blister or a burn from the trauma of the night before.

"What evil is this?" the man cursed.

"Deryni are evil spawn," Dharma whispered, crossing herself. She shrank back from Jessa, who scrambled to stand up. "You are right, Marat; kill her, don't let her escape!"

"Devil be damned!" Marat howled, catching Jessa even as she stood. With his weight, he knocked her back against a tree, his left arm braced on her throat with the dagger mere inches away. "How did you heal? Tell me! I saw you in the house, and look, nothing," He leaned closer, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. "Are you a Healer? I have heard of ones like you. Heal me, or I will cut off your hands, and you will never heal again." With all her strength, she tried to push away his arm, but his weight was unmovable. He presented his bandaged broken right arm to her. "Heal me. Don't test my patience, do it, or you're useless to me. Heal me!"

Knowing not else what to do. Jessa did as she was told. At first her fear kept her from the focus, but when she placed her right hand over his, she knew the truth— he would kill her. She forced the focus as she had never thought she could and sent healing energy into his arm. When she was done, her hands went to her own throat as he let up on his choke-hold. Marat laughed with glee as he moved his right fingers, free of pain at last. He unwrapped the cloth and saw that the skin was whole, but then he saw the slight crookedness of the forearm. It had not been set straight and as it healed, it stayed at the slight angle.

Anger such as the girl had never seen, flared in his eyes. "You are the devil, damn you!" his words cursed her. She turned to run then, but he grabbed her left hand and squeezed until she fell to her knees. In a sudden decisive jerk, he twisted her delicate fingers in his, and he gave a pleased smirk when they both heard the snapping of bone. Jessa yelled out a horrific scream. When he let her hand go, it revealed the last two fingers bent oddly sideways. Jessa felt a clammy cold shudder travel over her nerves. The color in her cheeks drained to white and her mind was overwhelmed by the blackness of unconsciousness.

Endless hours turned into days of numb grief for the little girl. The desperate pair of humans avoided the roads and towns, evading the King's patrols with their watchful eyes. Marat had the woman and child hide in brambles and fields by day; he would then disappear, only to return with bits of stolen food. By night, they rode the palfrey across moonlit farmlands and forested hills. Marat was not taking any chance that men might be in search of the commoners who murdered a nobleman and set his manor ablaze.

On the third day, Marat spoke to Dharma of the destination he had planned. "I soldiered with a man several years ago in the wars. He's a rough type who turned to a dishonest life. He'll find a way to sell this without prying eyes." He jiggled the sack as he spoke. "We need money if we're to escape to Torenth."

"Can you trust him?" Dharma asked a little fearful of this man.

"No. You can't trust any man with that livelihood." Marat stated bluntly. "What choice do we have? We need money to leave Gwynedd. If we are found with the items in this bag, the king will quickly learn what we have done. Our lives will be forfeit and you know it."

Two more days passed when they were forced to travel by daylight on the steadily climbing mountain road. Dharma rode behind Marat, while Jessa was held before him on the high pommel of the saddle. He held her tightly to his chest by his left arm. He had already warned her about bringing any attention their way. "You make any motion or sound, and I'll break those fingers for you again." It was a familiar threat, one he had used several times. Dharma had wrapped the two broken fingers days ago, and when Jessa healed her own hand in the dark, the fingers had healed in the bent crooked position of Dharma's wrapping. The sight had sent Marat into a peal of laughter, happily threatening her that the only cure was to break them again. The threat frightened the child and she submissively behaved. Many horses and litters passed them by on the climbing road, but she dared not make a single sound.

They passed through the city gates in the long shadows of the late afternoon. Only the roof-lines of a large castle in the distance held the rays of the setting sun. The stunning red tiles of the turrets and towers glistened in the golden light. Jessa took a moment to marvel at the castle, which reminded her of a tapestry in her family's main room. She shivered at the memory of seeing that tapestry burn. Marat turned the horse away from the sight. They went down a side lane where he made a few discreet inquiries about the Golden Wren Tavern.

As the light faded from the sky, Marat reined in the palfrey before an open door with a worn sign over the archway. The sign's color was washed red with a bird in dusky gold painted in the center. In the past, the whole building must have been painted gold but the color had weathered away. The tall thin windows on the second floor showed heavy weathering as well, with broken shutters hanging away from the open casements. They entered the dingy old building and found many patrons of unsuitable natures within. With the captive child's delicate fingers in one large hand and the bag of plunder dragging from his other hand, Marat pushed through the throng of patrons until he found an open table in the main room's far corner. He turned Jessa's custody over to the haggard widow who sat down in a chair near the wall. Marat gave the room a full sweep of his eyes, and then gathering his determination he walked to the barkeep. After a share of words, the barkeep discreetly showed him to a backroom.

"So what will we do with you?" Dharma harshly asked pulling Jessa in close. "Marat thinks he can turn a coin or two selling your talents to needy folk along the road. But I don't want you; you're nothing like my child." The woman's eyes glared with ill-favor at the girl. "First sign of trouble, and I will sell you to a slaver. Do you understand me?"

Time passed before Marat came out from the back room. When he did return, he was accompanied by a man who was shorter than Marat by a full hand-span, but whose broad shoulders and strength of arms diminished his friend. This stout man escorted the pair with the child and their bag of belongings down the hall, up the stairs, and to the left. They entered a dusky room with a bed in the corner, a square table in the center with two chairs, and a fire in the hearth.

"Wait in here," the short man said. "I'll bring a guy who can buy your goods. He's skittish, so best watch what you say. 'Bout a half hour then." After he left, Marat pulled a loaf of bread out from his shirt and tore off a chunk for Dharma and a smaller piece for Jessa. The three sat in silence. After traveling for days in the cooling autumn air, they gladly took in the warmth of the room.

The friend of Marat returned with a thin tall man who had an ugly scar down his face. No names were exchanged, only nodes of acknowledgement. At a stern glance from the stout man, Dharma pulled Jessa to the bed at the back of the room. She kept a heavy grasp over Jessa's left hand, warning her she needed to be very quiet.

The scar-faced man sat at the table and motioned for Marat to bring his goods. The thieving peasant dropped the canvas bag on the table, bringing every one's focus to the opening of the bag. Items spilled out across the wood surface: pieces of pewter, silver and gold. Things the child instantly recognized as belongings from her own home. The men sorted through several items, then pulled forth the jeweled curved sword still bloodied from the deadly fight days before.

"That's my father's!" Jessa yelled, finally gaining her voice. These horrid people had burned her home and murdered her papa.

"Shut her up," Marat hissed. Irritated, Dharma clamped her hand tight around Jessa's bent fingers. Jessa attempted to pull away but stopped breathless with fear. Dharma only snickered at the child's dismay. More items spilled from the bag. Each item, once reviewed, was placed aside. Several pieces of jewelry and golden platters were set in a pile, separate from the rest.

At the bottom of the bag, a pair of silver chains tumbled out. A round, bright silver medallion hung from the chains catching the glint of the firelight. The scarred man scowled in distaste. The sight of the beloved bit of jewelry set Jessa into a rage. Her father had always worn that medallion, never taking it off. He had once said it was a family relic, an heirloom from an ancestor of great influence and power. The scarred man stared at it for a long minute, and then thrust it into the fire as if the touch of it burned his skin.

"Damn the Deryni taint," he ranted, spitting in the fire to declare his distaste for the heathen object.

Jessamyn exploded with anger. She bit down hard on the arm of the hand that held her fingers. The widowed woman howled and shoved the girl to the ground. Jessa used the momentum to roll past the men and come up near the hearth. She seized the glinting piece of chain, not yet in the fire. The medallion came forth with a pale glow, the silver having caught the fire's heat.

"Murderers!" Jessa screamed, remembering all too clearly the night of the fire. She twisted from the hands that lurched at her and she screamed again. "You killed my father! You burned my home! My papa is dead!" She leaped away from the hands scrambling to catch her, and she dove to the narrow open window, trying to climb out through it. She spied four men on horseback trotting on the road below her. She desperately yelled at them for help.

The stout man snatched her shoulders from behind, and forced his callused hand over her mouth. She tried to scream again, but could barely breathe, so she bit down on his finger instead. Angered, he pushed her at the window to free himself from her jaws. Below the window, the men on horseback took notice of the screaming child; even now, she could see them pointing her way. Jessa managed another call for help before she was pulled from the window's edge and thrown to the floor.

The scarred man ran to the window and looked out. "We're done here," he growled, pulling the sword from the table.

"I want my payment!" Marat demanded.

"Very well!" was the man's response. With an evil thrust, he responded further by forcing the point of the curved blade into Marat's chest. The peasant woman screamed and jumped backward, but not fast enough to avoid the next sweep of the blade. Blood spilled over the floor. The killer seemed not to care.

"What the devil! Why?" yelled the stout man.

"The earl's men; they want my hide," stated the evil, scarred man with a snarl. He swept the pile of goods from the table back into the bag. Half the items fell to the floor loudly and scattered at his feet. "No one can know I was here. Are we clear on that?" Those last words held a deep tone of threat, causing the strong hands holding Jessa to tighten around her shoulders. With her father's sword in one hand and the half-full bag in the other, the tall man leaped out the casement window, leaving devastation in his wake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 -**** JK 973 ****1****st**** Coin **

Jessa's heart pounded rapidly in her chest as strong hands held her firmly to the floor. She could not see her abductors, but she knew they were no more. Through the stout man's grip on her shoulders, she felt his disgust. But stronger than that was his flaring anger that frightened her to her core. The angry man's head jerked upward at the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall beyond the door.

"What is going on in there?" called an authoritative voice in the hall. Fists struck the thick wood, sending vibrations through the wall.

"Help!" Jessa screamed. Instantly she regretted her outcry. The man holding her hissed a nasty sound, committing himself to the necessary act he was about to complete. His huge hands moved to her neck.

Self-preservation flared. Jessa's free hand reached up to his face to push him away, at the same instant her mind screamed, _"Stop!"_ The shock froze her captor; his hands loosened around her throat. In that moment, Jessa squirmed out of his grasp and jumped as far away from the huge man as she could. He blinked several times and then shook his head to be free of the sound that had blasted through his skull. Jessa coward to the corner as he staggered to stand, and then he stumbled over the two dead bodies in his attempt to catch her again.

With a clanging jolt, the lock on the door bent and twisted. Freeing itself from the rusted catch, the door slammed back on its hinges. Men swarmed inward with swords drawn, taking inventory of the chaos. Two of the men charged forward. They quickly contained the stout man trying to escape; one forced him to his knees at the tip of his sword, while the other confined his arms behind him. Jessamyn skittered over the bed to escape the armed men crowding into the small space of the room. She huddled there clutching the medallion to her chest, afraid of what these new men would do. One rider, a heavy warrior, looked out the window searching for the one that had escaped. In his disappointment, he turned back to watch the center of the room where the first two held their prisoner.

The last man to enter was tall, brown haired, and broad of shoulder. His noble appearance, with his white knight's tunic with the red stag emblem at his shoulder, marked him as the leader of these men. His eyes scanned the room from the man in custody to the dead on the floor. His face softened as his look fell on Jessa in the corner. At a nod, the warrior from the window advanced toward the child. Fearfully, Jessa slid into the space behind the bed. The warrior glanced at his sword and sheathed it back on his belt. He tried again to reach for her, but she just backed into the corner further. He shook his head and walked away, letting her be for the moment.

The knight in white nodded to the others, assured that all was secure. He came over to the edge of the bed and leaned out a hand toward Jessa. She watched, afraid, as he spoke directly to her.

"I'm Sir Thomas, Knight of Lendour. I'm not here to harm you. I just want the truth."

Jessa squatted low behind the bed. She stared over the covers with eyes that were wide with fear.

"Come child, come out from behind there. It does not matter what your parents have done, you cannot be accountable for their misdeeds. I promise on my oath that you are safe." He reached his hand further across the bed and waited calmly for her to react. At first, she did nothing, but he did not lose his patience; he seemed determined to wait for her, like a teacher who had much experience in dealing with children. Slowly, very gingerly, she reached her right arm out. Soothingly, he touched the back of her hand. With a nod, he urged her to come closer on her own. Slowly, she climbed back on the bed, not knowing quite why she trusted him.

"What is your name?" he asked softly.

"Jessa," she hesitantly replied.

"Jessa? A pretty name for a pretty girl. Tell me the names of your father and mother that are here before us?" His hand pointed to the bodies of her abductors on the floor.

She shook her head violently, but before she could gather her courage, the captured man on his knees blurted out, "Marat, father a pretty girl? Hah, his bastard children are uglier than sin. No woman would marry him."

"Marat, you say?" the warrior stated, turning the dead man over to search for his identity. "Tell me what you know about this Marat," the swordsman demanded of the criminal on his knees. The stout man gave a short smirk and turned his face away, refusing to say more.

"This man is not your father?" the white knight concluded, pointing to the body of Marat lain out with eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

"No," the six year old gasped at the sight of the dead man. "Not him!"

"What is your family name? Can you tell me who is your father?" Sir Thomas asked, keeping his voice calm.

"I'm Jessa Kyriell, my lord. My father…" Jessa's voice caught in her throat, "He was one of the King's men, but he… he died," the child managed to say before tears welled up in her eyes. It was the first time she had said it aloud. She had so not wanted to believe what she knew in her heart to be true.

"Keryell?" questioned the warrior. He looked curiously over at the young girl. "I know of several Keryell's; the head of the family is living in Drellingham." He offered up, in hope of finding distant family for the child.

Sir Thomas considered his companion's reference. He turned his attention back to Jessa. "Look at me young Jessa; tell me if Jon is right? Does your father have family in Drellingham?"

She stared at him blankly. His words had little meaning. Where was he talking about? "I don't know," were the only words she managed to stammer out.

A look of frustration crossed the knight's face, Jessa coward afraid he might lose his temper with her. As she back away, his features softened, and the white knight calmed his voice as he asked for clarification. "Your father was a King's man? Did he wear a white belt like mine? Was he a knight?"

"Yes," she whispered, trying desperately to control her fear. "Mama fell in love with him on the day he was knighted." She remembered her favorite story and wanted her mama to tell it to her again. Couldn't these men take her home?

The warrior, Jon, made a deep-throated laugh, which caused a stern look from Sir Thomas. Jon cleared his throat and offered his best knowledge. "Keryell is a master in his guild under the King's name," he said, fitting facts together. "Sir Thomas, I believe he has at least two kin whom have been knighted. I have fought alongside with at least one of the weapon-smith's sons."

"Indeed… speaking of weapons..." Sir Thomas considered. His eyes quested about the room not finding what he was looking for. "Did either of you find the weapon that did this?" the knight asked of his two men holding their man captive.

One man produced a short dagger that was clean. "No, Sir Thomas, only this was in his boot," he said.

The knight's gaze focused on the man held in firm custody. "What have you to say? Tell me, what is your part in all this? Did you kill these two?" The knight's voice deepened, threateningly. "Who was the other man we saw through the window? I want names!"

This time the thug held his tongue, watching the ceiling uncooperatively.

"Very well, if you will not speak, then I will give you to the mercy of the magistrate. He will try you for murder. Do you still have nothing to say for yourself?" When no response came, the knight shook his head at the whole unworthy business. "Take him away." With a short scuffle, the two men dragged their captive out of the room.

The knight in white glanced through the remains of stolen goods on the floor. Nothing was there that would lead to its original owners. "We'll wait for someone to complain," he said absently to himself. "As for the child… I'll send letters to weapon-smith Keryell. Perhaps she is one of his kin. He might be willing to take in a child of his blood even if she is illegitimate."

He sighed, inwardly hoping that would resolve the matter. "Just in case she is the daughter of a knight, I think it best we give her to Abbess Phyla Mary of Saint Clair's Convent. That's a far better place than the workhouse orphanage in town, especially for one so young."

When Jessa realized they did not intend to send her home, she called out to the knight, pleading, "I want to go home, I want my mama!"

Sir Thomas looked down at the woman on the floor and shook his head. He picked the child up in his arms, turning her away from the center of the room. "Young one, your mama is dead…"

"No…" Jessa cried, "Please… I want my mama." She looked into the tall knight's brown eyes, begging for him to help her.

"Jessa, I am sorry, but your mother has died. If you say your father has died too, then I am sorry to tell you this, but you must know that you are now an orphan." Sensing truth in the knight's voice, the little girl was stunned into believing what he said. Why else had her mother not rescued her in the long last week. The sudden hopelessness was too traumatic even for tears. The child clutched the medallion to her heart and bent her head down to her hands. Sir Thomas shook his head sadly. "Jon, please see her safely to Saint Clair. I'll get a letter sent to Keryell right away."

With a resolution in hand, the knight handed the girl over to the warrior and then left the room. Jon bundled the girl in the same filthy cloak she had been trussed up in for a week. He wrinkled his nose at it and pulled it away from the child. A fresher blanket was pulled off the bed and wrapped about the six year old to keep her warm during the evening ride to the convent. Jon tossed a coin to the worried barkeeper lurking in the doorway.

"I'll have guards take the bodies. If you ran a more decent establishment you wouldn't have to be liable for a mess such as this," Jon said in disgust. The barkeeper frowned at Jon and the mess the warrior left behind him. Nonetheless, he pocketed the coin and let the blanket-covered child be carried away. Had Jon or anyone else looked over at the befouled green wool they would have seen the emblem of the healing house of Kyriell in the upper corner. No one thought to look.

* * *

The mother of three cherished children leaned back in the high plush chair at the table and wiped the tears off her cheek. No child should have to endure such an event. Her daughter, Briony, was nearly three years old, her oldest son, Brendan, was eight, and the newest young earl, Kelric, only five months of age. The Duchess of Corwyn could not ever imagine any of them being without the love of a parent to protect them. It wounded her motherly spirit to feel Jessa's loss.

Richenda took a long moment before she turned her chair to study her youngest son. He lay in his crib sleeping soundly. A smile brightened her face as Kelric made little sucking motions with his lips. His cheeks were round and rosy, a topknot of blond hair escaping the blanket wrapped over his head. She reached down and picked him up gently, cradling him in her arms and kissing his forehead.

Baby Kelric smiled a sleepy yawn and then fell back to sleep. He was so good, this newest little man. He was a happy baby, not fussy like her first son had been. With three years of marriage to the devoted Duke Alaric, Richenda knew the disposition of the father had a lot to do with his two children's attitudes. Her first husband did not have Alaric's calm patience and understanding ways. Brandon was not a bad boy, far from it. Alaric's influence had seen her oldest son grow with a strong, loyal guiding hand, away from the disloyal attributes of the first man she had married and been widowed from.

Richenda carried Kelric over to the window beside the warm hearth and let the midday sun of this warm autumn day shine on the baby's face. Her baby yawned again and opened his eyes. In the light, she saw how the blue color was turning to that soft grey tone of his father's eyes.

"I bet you're hungry," the loving mother said. "I love that little scrunch of your lips and murmur you make when you want food. You're not one to cry for the simple things, are you? Like your father, you, my little Deryni, know how to win a lady's heart." She cooed at Kelric's puckering lips while she loosened the ties at her neckline and let the neck of her green gown fall away. With a shift of her arms, Kelric found the answer to his hunger. Richenda's smile deepened, he was growing quickly. He was getting heavy to hold for long periods of time. She walked to the settee at right angle between the hearth and the window and settled her loved one more comfortably.

The earl's office, where Richenda chose to spend her day, was on the third floor of the Castle of Cynfyn. The office was warm and tasteful, with deep textured, intricately carved, wood finishings along all the walls. The tall hearth before her took up the center of the inner courtyard wall with a window at each side of the hearth. The afternoon sun shone brightly through both mullioned, lattice-lit windows, lightening the room to ease the eyes while working. Both windows looked over the inner gardens and across to the duke and duchess personal rooms on the opposite west wing. Those rooms were also highly embellished with beautiful wood finished walls with multiple mullioned windows that let in the morning sun for when the family was waking and preparing for a new day.

Unlike the succession of personal rooms in the west wing, the library adjacent to the office, though equal in size, was windowless and dark. Burnished wood shelves stood tall along its east wall, each one extending halfway into the room, forming multiple small alcoves. Every shelf was filled from floor to ceiling with centuries old books, scrolls, charts, and parchments. A huge wooden table with two chairs per side filled the west side of the room. At first, the duchess had used the library table, but she preferred the light of the office windows, so she had moved back out to the main office with its desk shining in the sunlight. At the moment, that desk was stacked with items she had thought Alaric might wish to see. The jeweled box with its coins, she placed separately on the table near the hearth with its soft cushioned, carved wood chairs. The matching pillowed settee was comfortable and warm, allowing Richenda to relax easily into her motherly duties.

Richenda leaned back into the pillows and gazed out the window at the turreted red roof-line of this extravagant old Deryni castle. Castle Cynfyn was an architecturally beautiful structure, standing majestic against the high mountain backdrop, below the ancient wild woods of alder, oak, and spruce. The castle walls edged the side of the stream that marked the head of the Molling River where the waters would travel west as far as the Kingdom of Gwynedd's capital city of Rhemuth. The curtain walls were thick and heavily fortified; for three hundred years they had stood strong. Within the walls were long colonnades fronting on multiple barracks, artisan's dwellings, and the princely stables. The main keep was open-square shape built from large stone blocks. It was a four-floored structure with periodic large windows and multiple balconies. The majesty of the castle came from the steep red-tiled roof-lines that were intercepted multiple times by slender turrets and two round towers. Each tower and turret was again crowned in red slate tiles, glistening in the afternoon sun. The City of Cynfyn lay in the valley at the castle's feet. Its architecture emulated the castle's with multi-peaked, red-tiled roofs, making the valley of Cynfyn a visual treat after the long climb from the Molling River Valley at the base of the mountains.

Richenda closed her eyes thinking of the men that had lived in this grand castle. The Cynfyn family was as reputed as their home residence. Alaric's grandfather was Keryell Cynfyn, the 12th Earl of Lendour. As the legendary tales are told, he was a man renowned for aggrandizing his position. In a coup that scandalized the royal court, Keryell whisked the Heiress of Corwyn away from her guardians and married her before anyone could put a stop to it, thus adding the Duchy of Corwyn to his future children's estates. When Keryell's only son died without an heir, Keryell's oldest daughter, Alyce, was made heiress to both the Duchy of Corwyn and the Earldom of Lendour.

As the direct male line of the Cynfyn name came to a close, Alyce with her huge inheritance was given by the king to a simple human knight as a reward for his resounding loyalty to the crown. Kenneth Morgan was a man of deep honor and respectability. He married Alyce with love in his heart. Together they produced a son worthy of the two high titles and the legacy that came with them.

That son was Alaric Morgan. He was more than the Duke of Corwyn and the Earl of Lendour. He was the King's Champion, the protector of the Crown, and a man of unrelenting loyalty and honor. He was half Deryni and half human, working hard at overcoming the two hundred year intolerance toward the Deryni Race in this nearly all human realm. Additionally, Alaric had recently discovered he was a Healer. Deryni healing was so rare, it had not been seen for a hundred years, and it had been thought that the gift had been lost from the Deryni race forever.

The mystery of this greatest gift of healing in her husband was one of the large questions that drove Richenda to review the old archives of the Cynfyn line. The Deryni Corwyn line, which she had reviewed when they were first married, had no reference to a healer in its lineage, so she was certain there must be a link to the healing gift in his grandfather's Cynfyn line. That memory coin lying on the table was the first clue she had found about any healer. That alone was enough to pique Richenda's interest.

Baby Kelric cooed as he fell asleep, satisfied with a full tummy. He would wake with plenty of energy tonight when she wanted to rest. But with the warm air and a bundling of fresh blankets, he fell asleep easily. She placed the little earl back in the crib and rocked it with one hand while she sat once more at the table and stared at the three coins teasing her. Assuring herself that her son had fallen fast asleep, Richenda picked the second memory coin up off the table and held it to her eyes. The date on it was 985.

In preparation of the spell that clarified the visions on the old Deryni coin, Richenda took in a deep, steadying breath and centered her focus. She cupped the coin between her palms, and whispered the words of perception. The spell wrapped around the memory imprinted there. It highlighted her inner eye, revealing the recollection of a gallant, tall knight riding a magnificent black stallion, while he proudly led his victorious cavalry of knights home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 - WIC 9.18.985 2nd coin**

Sir Washburn Iliff Cynfyn, Knight Captain, commander of the armies of Lendour, and heir presumptive to the Earldom of Lendour, eased his seat back in the saddle. His scan of the rising hills before him found nothing but the beckoning road home. He urged his steed forward. The black R'Kassi stallion, aptly named 'Shadowed Night', lightly pranced a short anxious trot before settling back to an eased walk.

Shadow sported the full regalia of a wealthy lord on his parade home from a victorious war. The stallion's barding was of light armor, the heavy war plate had done its job throughout the season; it was no longer required during the hot journey home. The light barding was composed of a half plate mail champron covering his head from ears, across the eye bows, and down the nose. A crinite of light chain mail replaced the heavy war mail across the stallion's arched neck and chest. A croupier of light mail covered the stallion from saddle to haunches. All this iron and steel was protected from the heat of the sun by the drape of silk. This black stallion's caparison was of black ground, with red and black checkered bordering. Emblazoned at the hindquarters was the heraldry of the house of Cynfyn: a red rearing stag on a white shield. The rider emulated his steed in the wearing of light plated armor and chain mail under a tunic of red on black. The warrior had also chosen to leave his heavy war armor behind with the baggage for these last two days ride home. The knights at his back rode in similar array, with light armor and a brilliant variation in the color of each caparison.

The Knight Captain's stature, on this warm mid-September morning, was straight and attentive. He led fifty of Lendour's greatest knights toward the final destination of the city of Cynfyn, the seat of the earldom and home. The Knights of Lendour were honored men, well disciplined in loyal ranks. They had shared the long seasons of battle in the fields of the City of Rengarth to the east. They were a renowned heavy cavalry, which had gained the respect of the newly crowned King Cluim of Gwynedd. They had won the field through an array of skirmishes that led to the main battle at the very gates of Rengarth. The siege was finally broken, and the Torenth army was routed back across the mountains, eastward into the enemy's own lands. These men at his back, Sir Washburn called friends. They were skilled and loyal to the house of Cynfyn. He led them in fairness and honesty, relaying the orders of the Earl of Lendour with victorious effect.

Wash's faith and loyalty sat squarely on the shoulders of his older brother, Earl Muir Cynfyn. As his men looked to their Knight Captain, so did Wash look to Muir. The two men could be mistaken for twins, though Muir had five years on his younger brother. Both men wore their gold hair short beneath their helms, with a neatly combed mustache, and a short beard upon their chins. Both men's eyes were blue, but Wash had a rounder face that often gave a more youthful appearance than his twenty-six years. The clear difference was that Wash, as the rogue, affected blacks in most of his attire. By contrast, Muir's preferences lent itself to the reds and whites of his hereditary colors. Hence, the magnificent grey stallion that he rode, ten paces behind the commander. The stallion proudly displayed the house of Cynfyn heraldry of white field caparison with a red and white checkered border. Muir named the grey 'Mystic Morning' in response to the name of his brother's steed. It was a private joke between friends. For the first time in months, Muir was relaxed and enjoying this final ride home. He sat in the midst of his knights, relishing the casual camaraderie that his title seldom allowed.

The vanguard of fifty strong knights and twenty squires at Sir Washburn's back had on the previous day dispatched from the main Lendour army an army of thirty-five hundred soldiers. These men considered themselves home, having cleared the northeastern boundaries of the Earldom of Lendour two days ago. Once in home territory, the army had split in half: those heading south along the mountain's base toward Drellingham, and those traversing the east/west pass to travel over the Lendour Mountains to reach the western facing hills where the capital of the earldom and the castle of Cynfyn stood strong. The main army with their heavy equipment and wagons would take an additional five days to reach their chosen destinations. Earl Muir Cynfyn had left the army early, looking forward to finally getting home.

The morning hours saw the cavalry riding steadily westward, ascending far above the dry grassy hills of yesterday. The brush above their heads turned to trees and the trees to dense woods. They climbed through the forested mountains, upward toward the Pass of Festil. The pass was a treacherous ravine in the mountainside, which got its name from the first Torenthi earl who fiercely controlled this land a hundred and fifty years before. The road ended a quarter mile before the opening of the pass. Here the waters at the source of the Molling River descended off the northern mountains into a flat valley bottom. Over eons of time, the mountain waters had eroded the westward pass through the hills forming the rugged gorge. At its narrowest, the gorge was only thirty feet wide with a stepped northern cliff face and a rocky southern hillside. The autumn and spring floods made the ravine impassible, forcing travelers north around the mountain into Carcashell, or far south into Dhassa. Not today, however, the dry summer had baked away the moisture, leaving the pass open for horses and men.

As the noon hour approached, with the blazing sun shining on them over the heads of the tall oaks and spruce, the cavalcade of knights came to the end of the road and descended into the river valley before the Pass of Festil. Lord Washburn stopped well back of the gorge before him. He cast his mind outward, not expecting to find more than a wolf or a deer. To his utter surprise, he felt the presence of nearly two hundred minds waiting in ambush on the rock ledges ahead.

How negligent could he have been? Within three hours ride of Castle Cynfyn, lying in wait, was a battalion of the enemy.

He furled his brow under his helm, and his eyes scanned the northern rock crest for any outward signs of attack. There were none. The Torenthi had the location well laid out. If not for his Deryni senses, he might have walked his men into the mouth of death. Once more being Deryni proved its worth. He sent mental warnings to his brother and to Sir Artimus behind him, and then to Sir Dillon at his side. The three other Deryni within his vanguard were as surprised as he to find the enemy so close to home. The message quickly spread by words and hand signals to their human comrades. Within seconds, all knew of the confrontation about to erupt. They were battle trained and ready.

The Knight Captain held his men in the relatively more open riverbed on the valley floor where he stood. It was eminently more preferable than that of the narrow gorge of the enemies choice. To retreat would prove of no value. Racing back up to the east road, with arrows at one's back, would be just as fatal as walking into the trap ahead. Better to face this rabble on his own terms. They would make a stand and force the Torenthi to come to them.

A word to Sir Dillon sent the lieutenant back, retreating through the vanguard. Sir Dillon quickly handpicked the eight sharpest archers among the fifty. The nine of them retreated at a gallop back up to the east road they had just departed. A quarter mile back was a hidden break in the north crest wall. Concealed from all except for those who knew of it was a small deer trail, which climbed the steep hill and crossed the north cliff face at its top line. This would place Dillon and his men above the enemy archers that invariably waited on the rocky cliffs within the gorge. The trail was known well to the Cynfyn brothers and Sir Dillon. As children, they had used it to spy on the old king coming home from Corwyn.

Just as predicted, a vault of metal tipped arrows flew high and far, attempting to eat the distance to the stand of the Lendour Knights. The arrows fell short by some fifty feet. Not far enough away for Wash's taste. A weightier bow and a stronger arm could send an arrow well into their midst. Shields swung off men's backs and steady left arms held them out for protection.

Wash sent a mental word to his brother, warning him to stay back in the middle of his men. _"They may not have picked you out of the group yet— best stay where you stand."_

Muir's response was displeased. Nonetheless, he stayed near the center back of the vanguard, with his loyal lieutenant Sir Artimus at his side.

Six knights, shields high, took the front line to either side of their commander. Of the six, Washburn's two loyal friends came to stand guard at either of his sides: Sir Paulson moving to his right hand, and Sir Thomas holding steady at his left. Sir Larret and Sir Garwin moved further to his left, just as Sir Ronald and Sir Lambert moved far to his right. The seven men formed a formidable line of protection for those who prepared behind them. A third of the knights behind pulled forth their short bows, stretching war tipped arrows into place. They readied to wreak havoc on the enemy when they came. The rest, including the squires, surrounded the Earl of Lendour. They drew their swords, and they waited for the enemy's move.

A second volley of arrows once more fell short, but only this time by twenty feet.

"Let them come to us!" Lord Washburn commanded, letting his stallion prance in place at the front line. They did not have a long time to wait.

The Torenthi army, reordered from their failed ambush, came out from the narrow pass mounted on wild coursers and desert ponies. They yelled and hollered, brandishing steel above their heads. Their seemingly undisciplined ranks were a deception that Lord Washburn found all too familiar. He counted their number at greater than one hundred and momentarily wondered where the rest lay hidden. If thirty archers hid in the rocks, then at least another seventy men were somewhere unseen.

He held his sword hand high and waited for the descending horde to come nearer. At thirty paces, his hand slammed downward, and a multitude of arrows from the cavalry short bows flew out from between the protection of the Lendour front line. He did not have to look to know the bowmen quickly notched a second set of arrows to their bowstrings to let those fly immediately upon the first.

An entire row of horses and men stumbled and fell, crashing down into the uneven riverbed floor. Some of the enemy behind went down as well, before horses had the room to leap over their fallen comrades. The Lendour bows once more let fly a full third round, sending more of Torenth's front line cavalry to the rocks. Unstoppable, the masses of the enemy came on, crushing against the Lendour shields. Swords sang out as both sides came together in a deafening clash.

Skill, precision, and instinct influenced each individual confrontation from that moment on. The Lendour Cavalry had the advantage of well-trained heavy warhorses and superior weapons, with long swords wielded with deadly precision. The Torenthi advantage was smaller agile mounts, with quick maneuvering ringed leather armor and three times the greater number of men. Washburn's sword danced to the tune of clanging steel. His long blade cut into the enemy with relentless conviction. His shield arm, ever facing the enemy archers to the north, proved justified as two well-aimed arrows clashed against the shield's metal face. The enemy had found at least two archers with the strength to pull that distance. The others at his side took note and kept their shield arms high. The enemy now had pushed beyond the Lendour front line, bringing all the knights into the fray.

Slash and dodge, cut and block. Sword against shield, shield against axe, and pounding warhorse hooves against anything that hit the ground. The front line of Lendour knights fought with tenacity. Their commander on his black warhorse was immortal. A ferocious number of foes fell before him, but an equal number slipped past and behind. The front line was pushed forward toward arrow range, while the remaining vanguard was shoved back. The seemingly inconsequential tactic was not recognized until far too late to correct. The front line of seven was separated from the main core of defenders. The enemy pushed them north and west toward the opening of the ravine and the archers waiting there. An attempt was made to fight back from the cliff sides, but the desert ponies, with their attack and run tactics, made the attempt impossible. Washburn feared the enemy arrows could be their undoing, as more arrows rained down upon his shield. One thing was quite clear, the enemy had mistaken Wash for the earl, and all arms were strengthened against him. The Torenthi orders were obvious: at all cost, take him down.

"_Wash! 'Ware the Brush!" _Muir's tightly focused mental warning instantly alerted Washburn of the new danger. Too late, Wash saw the ambush his brother had sensed on his left flank. Spinning Shadow around, he turned just as deadly crossbow bolts rang out from the line of brush covering the southern slope at the mouth of the pass. Six bolts flew as one across the open riverbed with an anticipated fatal outcome.

The crossbow men surely were sorely disappointed. All six weighted missiles with razor sharpened steel heads shifted angle in mid-flight. Two thumped uselessly into the dirt under the black stallion's hooves, three flew high far above the rider's heads into the enemy behind, and only one hit its target with an unintended aim far off center. This last barb slammed home between the chain mail and plated armor of Washburn's right shoulder. The force of it slammed the commander's body back. He caught his balance, bruised and angry.

More deadly than a long bow arrow, the short missiles of the long-stalk siege crossbows held such impact that it could pierce plated armor at three hundred yards. Fortunately, there was a distinct reload time when the bowman had to turn the crossbow vertical and ratchet the bowstring back to be ready for another round. Once the crossbows were ready to aim again, only Deryni magic could defend against them. Something had to be done about those crossbows now, before that magic was diverted. The black knight spurred Shadow south and charged in a hard line across the riverbed, betting he could beat the crossbow men from taking that second shot. The three knights at his left flank saw him turn and knew his plan. They turned with him in a mad charge across the riverbed.

For just a second, Wash glanced back over the heads of the enemy, spying the defending vanguard on their tall warhorses, swords flashing in the continuous fray. In their midst he saw his brother, head high, eyes unfocused, and his body deceptively unaware of the surrounding melee. In full trance, Muir's well-trained mind had located the incoming missiles and deflected them out of targeted alignment. The helm of Sir Artimus and others were there at Muir's back keeping the enemy away from the Deryni lord. Could he hold the trance long enough for Wash to destroy this new danger? Faster, he spurred Shadow, gaining power and speed in his stallion's full charge. The distance across to the southern valley's edge lengthened in his perception. The four heavy warhorses pounded their hooves into the riverbed, sending sand upward in a wake behind them in their crazed race for time. Behind him, his three right-hand, front-line men had missed the queue of the charge. Belatedly they pulled to the south behind the four chargers, but they were slowed by the horde of enemy at their backs.

Sir Thomas pulled ahead of the four charging destriers, jumping the brush first and succeeded in trampling a crossbow man to the ground before that bolt flew free. In that same instant, three of the long siege crossbows were primed with deadly aim at the closing targets. The time to target in the commencing volley came too short for Muir to manage them all. The first bolt flew clear, but the second heavy bolt struck clean through Lord Washburn's shield. With unyielding power, the short-feathered shaft drove the steel point deep through mail, skin, and muscle of the forearm that held the shield upward in defense. The third loosed arrow, intending for Sir Larret's breastplate, was magically pushed right and low. The missile missed its target, but it erringly took Sir Ronald, ten paces back, in the knee.

Intent on the foliage hiding his target, and angered by the pain in his shield arm, Washburn clenched his jaw tight and spurred a leap from his warhorse over the brush. One man met the stallion's spiked hooves face on, while his kneeling neighbor took the full swing of the commander's long sword across the neck. His momentum carried the Knight Captain up the hill a short pace. The clang of Sir Larret's sword upon a fourth crossbowman followed close on Washburn's haunches. He spun Shadow hard around searching for the last two men. Garwin had the fifth man down as he turned, but the last bowman brought his primed unspent weapon into play.

The weapon discharged.

Unhindered by Deryni magic, the razor head bolt flew straight. Wash pushed Shadow to leap sideways, but the move was flawed, and his stallion only jumped half a pace to the side. At the twenty-foot range, the thrust of the cross bolt shaft sank past silk and chain mail, skin and muscle, slipping to its full length within the stallion's muscled chest wall.

Startled, the black warhorse screamed and reared. He threatened to flip over backwards away from the penetrating shaft. Nearly unhorsed, Wash brought the flat of his sword down between the ears of his steed, clanging a sound against the champron loud enough to send the stallion back down on all fours. Wash gave a mental commanded, and the black locked his knees. The stallion shivered, stunned, but kept his legs under him. Behind him, Sir Thomas raced toward his commander, not knowing whether the horse or the rider had been hit. Both were injured, and the crossbowman was taking advantage of that fact. He had tipped the crossbow stalk vertical and was already cranking fast and hard to bring the bowstring back again. Another moment, and he would be ready to launch another bolt. Sir Thomas made certain the man never met that desire. He ran the man through with the point of his sword.

Horses winded and men out of breath, the four knights took a moment to regroup. Victory was theirs against the enemies' devastating crossbows, the one weapon that could have lost them this battle. However, the moment was drowned by the sound of barbaric howls. In abrupt despair, the four front-line men glanced up the southern slope of rocks and trees to see the hillside frothing with movement.

Leaping from every hiding place, the seventy unaccounted foot soldiers swarmed over the knights like insects protecting their hive. Sir Garwin was unhorsed and stabbed to death in seconds. Sir Larret took the horde on with his heavy-handed sword thrusts, while Sir Washburn spurred the wounded Shadow to Larret's side. For a moment, the two knights bloodied the horde in singular form. Nevertheless, the swarm of footmen was unrelenting. Howling like mad men, wielding sharp curved swords with one hand and long daggers with the other, they poured over the two knights like a high tide bashing the shoreline rocks. Wash's long sword, in continuous motion, defended Shadow's right open flank. He could not help Larret as his red stallion's legs were cut out from under him. The horse and great knight of Lendour went down in a dreadful heap of sliced chain mail and blood.

Sir Thomas, far behind, was fighting in a crush of enemy to reach his commander's side. Desperate and alone, Sir Washburn defense turned chaotic, his sword slashed wildly at every enemy in his path. They relentlessly came at him with vengeance in their eyes. In the swarm of turmoil, an unseen enemy with a strong thrusting arm drove a scimitar blade upward under Washburn's wounded shield arm. The blade sliced easily through chain mail and skin, continuing upward under ribs into deep flesh. In the adrenalin of the moment, Wash barely felt the blade going in. Only as it was withdrawn did the Knight Captain gasp out, and for a moment, his world went white.

Unable to breathe or see, Wash instinctively slashed the long sword down angrily across his left wounded side, catching the face of the man that dared to draw his blood. The body of the enemy fell away, but his mission was complete. The commander of the Lendour army faltered, gasping in torment. His formidable energy drained away as blood ran freely down his leg. The enemy saw and surged toward him. Sir Thomas was miraculously there beside him, wielding his sword in swift, protective swings.

Spurred by need, the last of the three remaining front line warhorses galloped from the riverbed's edge toward their commander, taking guard position around him. Dazed and in shock, riding in the eye of the storm, Wash managed to tear away the front of his tunic and stuff the red and black silk hard into the gaping hole of his mail. He yelled out as the tight weave of silk curtail the blood exiting his side.

The clang of steel around him forced his numb, shocked mind back into the battle of the moment. He focused his eyes with difficulty and found his men to be in a crisis. He could not let them take his men down so cheaply. His jaw clenched, his mind pulsed,—insanely he charged Shadow toward the center of the mayhem.

Thomas was at that center taking the wrath of the enemy. Shadow's charge was sluggishly slow. Washburn hacked and slashed gaining distance, but not close enough when Thomas took a blade through the shoulder, losing his sword from the attack. In desperate need, Wash jammed his spurs in Shadow's sides. The stallion screamed even as he leaped, landing with flailing legs and hooves, trampling the attackers in his path. Only sheer desire for life kept the stallion from falling to the ground.

In a blur of need, the two knights crowded together. They had thinned out the horde, but the Torenthi still came on. Washburn's slow swing missed his opponent. He could not recover in time. As in a dream, Wash watched a curved blade thrust toward his heart. He was spent, there was nothing left. He closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer.

Sounds of death filled the air; howling and clanging echoed around his helm. The pain of his death did not come. He attempted a breath and found he could still breathe, although the act tore at his left side. Another breath and he opened his eyes. Lendour Knights fought before him. Sir Ronald even with his injured knee proved deadly accurate in his swordplay. Beside him rode Sir Paulson and Sir Lambert, and they too fought with the skill of Lendour. The three knights provided a formidable barrier between their commander and the remaining Torenthi foot soldiers.

The tide of the battle had reached its climax. The deadly arrows from the north cliff face ceased. With a sudden change of origin, a hail of arrows precisely aimed at the Torenthi Host slammed down upon the enemy. Standing on high ground, using high-tensioned long bows, Sir Dillon and his men had completed the task of eliminating the enemy archers. A notched arrow, aimed with precision, became the instrument of death. The Torenthi warriors could not withstand the barrage of Dillon's team. Dodging the long, slower swords was the advantage of light leather armor. It was impossible to dodge arrows unseen before they were lodged in the heart.

Energized by the new advantage, the main vanguard of Lendour Knights crushed through the weakened host, leaving none alive. Muir and Artimus pushed through the mounted stragglers and up the southern hill in their need to reach the separated men from the front line. Five of the exhausted knights were alive. Three continued the battle with Muir and his protectors now at their sides, but two, clinging to life, retreated from the fight.

Relieved from the battle, together Thomas and Washburn fought to stay conscious. They reached the flat riverbed and stopped. Skirmishes continued to both the left and right. The fifty Lendour Cavalry and their fighting squires once more proved their decisive victory over the two hundred enemies' strength. Men whooped and called as they cut down the last of the standing enemy. No one notice the two injured knights and their fading energies. With a desperate need to stay conscious, Washburn steadied his pounding heart and somewhere found the means to banish his fatigue with a spell. He stayed upright in his saddle. Thomas could not do the same. Wash braced him before he could fall from his horse. Still no one noticed. Not until Wash gave out an overly harsh command, using much of his regained focus, did anyone take notice of his fallen friend.

Admonished, three men came to his aid. They quickly relieved the commander of the unconscious Thomas, carrying him to safety and leading his horse away. In the process, someone jarred the Cynfyn shield, rendering a flash of pain though Washburn's skewered forearm. That little nudge undid him; his world swayed and faded, his sword fell away from his grasp with a clang to the rocks. His mind went black.

He was out for but a moment, not long enough to lose his seat, but long enough for another to take note of his condition. Muir turned from his last encounter and eyed his brother's slumped form and his horse's staggered stance. Alarmed, Muir cleared the footman at Sir Artimus's side. Then together, both men turned and raced down the slope.

Lord Washburn came to and gathered the last of his will. Once more, he tried to cast a spell to rid himself of the pain and weakness, but it was useless. For all his magical talent, ultimately he was mortal. Short of a miracle, he knew he would not see the sun set on this day. Under his seat, Shadow was breathing with distress. The great warhorse quivered from the effort. Now that the adrenalin had waned, the strengths of both man and horse were gone. He would die tonight just as he was certain they would have to put his stallion down tonight with him. He mourned for his steed. Pulling his right gauntlet free with his teeth, he reached his bare hand down and touched Shadow's neck, soothing the horse's mind with a brief touch.

Washburn's gaze scanned the sand and rocks, looking over the layered dead of the enemy. In their death, they would have rejoiced that they had taken him down. With his imminent demise, he rejoiced that they had missed the true earl altogether and gotten the wrong man.

The Earl of Lendour reached his brother's side. He pulled the gauntlet from his left hand and seized his brother's wrist. With a surge of concern, Muir's mind brushed up against Washburn's stubborn shields. Wash tried to hide the convulsing pain and invading shock, but Muir was unrelenting. Giving up the charade, Wash lowered his shields, revealing the true condition of his plight. Surprised and dismayed, Muir transferred energy to allay the younger brother's pain.

The Knight Captain smiled gratefully. His gaze rose to greet the earl. "We have won the day, my lord," he stated in a voice going ragged. "I am sorry that I will not be seeing home with you on the morrow." Filled with regret, the younger brother weaved in the saddle. Vertigo turned up to down, and his sight blurred with the spinning.

"Washburn... No!" yelled Muir, grabbing the black knight's shoulders and holding him from falling from the saddle.

Sir Artimus rode to the Knight Captain's left side. He swept his sword across the red, black and white shield of Cynfyn, snapping away the feathered shaft of the bolt protruding outward. He sheathed his sword and pulled out his dagger. Muir held the shield steady, watching Artimus as he sliced the dagger through the shield's inner leathers, cutting them free from the commander's grasp. Holding the arrow shaft hard at the arm, Arty had Muir rip the shield free and toss it to the ground.

Both men froze aghast at the sight hidden by the shield. A protruding mound of bloodied silk had been stuffed deep under bent and shattered chain mail. Wash did not give them time to react. Unnerved by the jarring of the barbed head still deep in his arm, he ground his teeth but could not keep his focus. In an unconscious state, he sagged into his brother's support.

Balancing the wounded knight on his grey, Muir ordered others to aid him. Four men ran between the black and white stallions, grabbing the falling commander, making certain that he did not hit the ground. Leaping to the ground after them, the earl shoved his hand under the shirt of mail to be certain his brother's heart still beat. It was there faint and rapid to compensate for the loss of blood.

Desperate, Muir looked up at his lieutenant, his eyes dilated from the half trance of concentration. "Arty! Take two men west and find the trail that leads to the Convent of Saint Clair. Tell the abbess the Earl of Lendour requires the convent's assets in our greatest need. If she resists, tell her this crisis is a defining moment. Bring to me what she offers, but do not leave there empty handed." Muir took a breath and looked up at his waiting men.

"We camp here for the night," he declared loud enough for everyone to hear.

Arty, still mounted, looked dolefully at his liege. "At full pace, that will still be an hour out and an hour back. Can he outlast the time?"

"He must!" Muir proclaimed, already turning his full focus to his wounded brother. "Quicker is better than slow!" he ordered when Arty did not move out. The lieutenant nodded, pointing at two knights still horsed, signaling them to follow him. Artimus left the battle scene at a full gallop, the two men following close upon his heels. Muir wished him quick success with the Abbess of Saint Clair. Then he returned his full attention back to his brother as his men laid him across a stretch of canvas.

Muir despaired as men unbuckled armor and stripped back chain mail, exposing the fist-sized gash and the hard packed silk inside it. They did not disturb the cloth. His brother was dying. Could he forestall that death long enough for Saint Clair's miracle to arrive?

* * *

Richenda gasped, taking in a long held breath.

The imagery in the memory coin was highly detailed, the battle precise. Richenda nearly felt as if she had been there. There at the end, as Sir Washburn's story faded, the Earl of Lendour cared enough about the telling to add his memories of the event. Thus, for the sake of the viewer, the story was told in full.

The duchess shivered at the memories of the fallen knight. In so many ways, Washburn Cynfyn reminded her of Alaric. She was surprised. She had been led to believe that the Cynfyn side of the family line had been ruthless Deryni, loyal to the crown but opportunistic when events allowed. She had always believed that her husband's unrelenting loyalty came from Sir Kenneth Kai Morgan, his father. Now she began to understand that Alaric's steadfast skill and loyalty came from both sides of his family lines. _With his imminent demise, he rejoiced that they had missed the true earl altogether and gotten the wrong man. _With Sir Washburn, the Cynfyn family name was proving to be both loyal and honorable.

However, the name Washburn was not listed in the succession line of the Earls of Lendour. Now at least she knew Washburn as Muir's younger brother. Still, she had no connection to him or to the more recent line of earls. She still could not reason out how or why his memories were in the coin in her hand.

Richenda considered her husband's lineage from the Cynfyn family name. Alaric's grandfather was Lord Keryell Cynfyn, and Keryell's father had been Lord Taillefer Cynfyn. However, before Taillefer, the succession line had not followed father to son. The problem stemmed from the Great War, known as the Battle of Killingford, which occurred in June of the year 1025, one hundred years in Richenda's past.

That battle had been a major crisis between Gwynedd and Torenth, during which tens of thousands of men contended for Gwynedd's crown. Many of the noble houses of Gwynedd put forth a heroic effort to save their Haldane King from Torenthi invaders. The men of Lendour defended beside their king, down to the last man. When King Urien Haldane was overrun by the massive horde of the enemy, so were most of the direct male heirs to the House of Cynfyn. The king's uncrowned brother ultimately turned the tide and gained victory, but in the end very few walked away from that field and none walked away unscathed. Richenda's research had shown only one adult Cynfyn survived the battle, Earl Walther. He had been injured during the battle, and four years later he succumbed to complications of his injuries. Thus, at the age of 14, Taillefer, the only surviving nephew to Walther, became the 11th Earl of Lendour. Who then was Walther, she did not know.

There had been so many deaths to the heirs of Cynfyn that the direct relationship between the 8th Earl, Muir, in 979 and the 11th Earl, Taillefer, in 1029 was a confused blur. Even Alaric did not know the full accounting of his ancestry. A question of sons, cousins, and nephews made it hard to determine how the inheritance bent to accommodate the direct male line. This question was a puzzle Richenda thought at first would be easy to solve, but the written records in the library were sketchy, as if there had been no one left to write it down.

Somewhere on the earl's private library shelves was the answer. Richenda just had not uncovered it yet. She would look further at the accounting books from Earl Walther's time, but first she had to learn the fate of the wounded knight. Her need to know enticed the duchess to cup the next coin between the delicate palms of her hands. She opened her mind and let the story unfold before her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 - JK 9.18.985 ****3****rd**** Coin**

Jessa Keryell sat under the ancient oak tree, in the main courtyard grounds within the walls of the Convent of Saint Clair. The novices were enjoying the early afternoon breeze on this hot, late-summer day. They listened to the sweet musical voice of Sister Desiree. The poem she sang was in Latin of far earlier times. The dulcet soprano carried the melodic theme that surrounded and caressed the group of young women resting under the tree. It was after the Sunday noon prayer, and it was the one time in the week that Jessa could call her own. All the novices were dressed similarly in cream-colored habits, with sky blue scapulars, and soft muslin veils. Some put needle and thread in hooped cloth, embroidering red songbirds and green thistle onto the white ground for the winter Twelfth Night celebration. A few choir sisters lounged on shawls upon the fallen leaves, humming harmony with the main singer.

Jessa, the oldest of the novices, sat far behind the others, their backs before her. Of the close-knit group of six friends that she had grown up with, she was the last to remain a novice. Two friends had taken their vows and found residence at the Cynfyn Cathedral. Two had married knights of the realm the year before and her closest friend, Ida, had been bound in marriage to Titus, the Earl of Carcashale. The last spring had been a joy of sewing Ida's wedding gown and trousseau, her family having gifted her with yardage of light blue silk for her wedding day. The wedding had been one of the happiest days in Jessa's memories. The glory and splendor of seeing her closest friend married to a strong young Earl of Gwynedd had been the stuff of dreams. She wondered if ever there would be a day like that for her. She knew better than to make hopes of those dreams. She came home to the convent the following week, realizing she was once more alone in her life. She made peace with herself and turned all her energy to the study of the talents that were to be her destiny.

Jessa watched the backs of the girls that hoped to make their vows soon. They did not know Jessa well, and none of them understood why Jessa, at eighteen, remained in their midst. All the girls of nobility would be married by this age, and all the others would have taken their vows. The younger novices did not know of Jessa's Deryni heritage; they did not know that the abbess denied her the solace of joining the Church. To them it appeared to be Jessa's choice not to complete her vows, and in quiet ways, they shunned her for it. The abbess enforced Jessa's silence on the matter, frightening the Deryni girl with horrid tales of other's Deryni fate. As the one recompense, the abbess offered Jessa the book she now balanced on her extra-long sleeve. The sleeve deliberately covered the deformity of her left hand, which led some to believe that this was the reason the girl felt tainted and impure, enough so as to keep her from taking her vows.

Paying little mind to what others thought, Jessa turned her thoughts back to studying the open page of the book in her lap. The top of the page was titled 'Mending Fractures of the Extremities._'_ It was a Deryni healer's dissertation on using specific mental abilities to pull splintered bone fragments back into place and to realign the bones. After reading the neatly penned discourse several times, she realized why in her childhood she could never have managed this advanced healing technique. She tried to imagine using the necessary principles of control, but without actually going into the proper healing trance, it was difficult to separate her conscious thought from the focused workings required.

Jessa finished the page and looked up at the blue sky with a soft smile. It was not likely that she was to come in contact with broken bones anyway, she inwardly mused. The Reverend Mother Phyla Mary rarely let her use her healing abilities except during moments in the birthing process. She had been taught the knowledge of midwifery like all the sisters within the walls of Saint Clair. The convent frequently functioned as midwives to the towns and villages within the northern Lendour Mountains. The sisters were assigned to the cathedrals in the towns of Cynfyn and Drellingham, but often the convent sisters would have to ride out at a moment's notice to help the pregnant women of the smaller villages and farms. It was also frequent that women nearing their time came to the convent for their confinement.

Jessa was nine when the abbess summoned the orphaned girl into the infirmary. At first, she had been excited to experience what the sisters often discussed in the halls, only to arrive within a room where a woman lay crying in pain. The abbess had looked straight into Jessa's eyes and told her to ease the woman's birthing pain, or else the mother and the unborn baby might die. How the abbess knew Jessa was Deryni, when she had meticulously kept her secret, Jessa did not know. That was the day she used her healing abilities for the first time in three years, and that was the day the convent learned they had more than just a Deryni within their midst.

Nine years later, the Deryni healer flipped through the parchment pages, then absently closed the book. She studied its worn leather cover in her lap. The tome was titled 'The Healers' Compendium' from the University of Grecotha. Apparently eighty years ago, there had been a school where healers came together to be taught their mastery. Jessa craved such training. She knew so little of her own abilities. Unfortunately, the tome's advanced thinking did more to confuse than educate. The whole of this tome assumed much about its reader. Throughout every division was an intense detailing, not just describing the physical techniques of healing, but explaining the focus of the practitioner's mind and the strengths of power required. Often these teachings were far more advanced than the novice, Jessa, was ready to grasp.

When she questioned the book's advanced knowledge with Sister Vivian, her teacher and mentor, the friendly nun told her to trust in God. Her abilities came from him, and he would see her to success if she gave herself fully to him. If only Jessa could tell Sister Vivian the reason for the core of her own beliefs. To no one did she admit the holy visitations of the cowled angel that would appear before her as he covered her hands with his. The miracle of his presence sustained the healing novice though the loneliness of convent life. He was her mystery, her savior, her reason for being. Her angel sent knowledge and life through her hands and she rejoiced in the rare moments of his presence.

About her angel, she knew of no one to trust with her questions. Humans could not see him. No one else had ever seen him. She wondered if he was the angel of healing. The healing talent was her own, but the knowledge and experience came from him. She decided he must appear to all healers in need, although she knew of no other healer to ask if this was so.

Jessa wished once more that she could talk to the only other Deryni nun whom she knew to be living within the walls of Saint Clair. She recalled the kind face of the older nun who extended a comforting hand to a terrified child when she first came to this strange place. Sister Meris had embraced the orphaned girl; she had protected Jessa when no one else would. For three years, Sister Meris was Jessa's teacher, her guardian, and substitute mother when the orphan had no other to help fight back the nightmares. But then sadly they were separated. It had been just a few months after Jessa had revealed her healing talent, Sister Meris took to seclusion within the inner cloister of the convent. She sequestered herself away from the world and the nine year old that so needed her love. The abbess told Jessa that Sister Meris searched for peace and health in God's will. Jessa heard the untruths in the Reverend Mother's voice and she feared it had to do with Sister Meris's teachings. She prayed daily for the kind nun, and though they lived in the same walls, she only saw the occasional glimpse of her going to and from early morning prayers. Once more, Jessa had felt the pain of loneliness.

It was about then that Ida first joined the novice ranks. With amazing swiftness, the two girls found a deep friendship between them. Ida, the daughter of a northern lord, gathered the daughters of nobility around her. The six maidens became inseparable in their support of one another. In chores, studies, and prayers they were seldom apart. They shared the stories of their homes and the dreams of young girl's fantasies. They respected Jessa's secret abilities and sometimes, on late nights, behind locked doors, they would ask Jessa to show them her golden hand-fire that would light the room with the excitement of forbidden magic.

The days of teenage flights of fancy had disappeared with Ida's marriage. Jessa had asked to take her vows, and the Reverend Mother had refused her. Deryni were tainted by their blood and were considered by some in the church to be the spawn of the devil and therefore outside the salvation of God. To take her vows would place her in the reach of the Abbot of Saint Foillan upon whose lands the convent rested. It was well known that the abbot desired to eradicate the magical population as a whole. It was not infrequent that there was news of another tragic person being exorcised from a demon's influence by burning on a pyre to release his or her tormented soul. On these occasions, the Reverend Mother assured Jessa of her fortunate status of being protected by the walls of the convent. As long as she remained compliant and loyal, the Deryni girl could consider herself safe from the intolerances of the outside world.

The East Gate bell rang in a deep tone from its mount on the outer tower. The novices stopped, all silent and attentive. They watched as Sister Isabel passed slowly across the courtyard. No one used the eastern gate. It opened to a steep descent which, once navigated, led to a worn dirt road that climbed upward to the Festil Pass. There at the beginnings of the Molling River, the convent road joined the road west to Cynfyn Castle. It was the long way around. It was far faster to get to Cynfyn, or just about anywhere else, by the use of the convent west gate. The walls surrounding the convent of Saint Clair were situated on the highest border of Saint Foillan's vast holdings of land. The convent's west gate opened to the fields of dairy cattle above the Abbey proper. Below the abbey, for the length of the valley, were terraced fields of grain. Beyond the boundaries of the Abbey's lands were two roads that led to the cities Jessa heard stories about but had yet to see. The north road followed the river all the way to Valoret, and the south road circled the hills to lead to the valley of Cynfyn.

To what mischief was anyone at the eastern gate? Mischief or not, after a passing of words through the wooden gate's grille, Sister Isabel appeared reassured as she ordered the gates unbarred and opened. Everyone about the small convent stepped close into the courtyard as three lathered war steeds in heraldry colored silks huffed and stomped up to the basilica steps. Three equally out of breath knights pulled their helms from their heads and bowed to the Abbess as she walked out onto the highest step before the church's bronze doors. As Jessa came closer, she realized the odd marks of red splattering over the colored silks of the riders and mounts were dried blood.

"Madam, I am Sir Artimus Cavalien, Lieutenant of the Lendour army. I request the services of a physician from this house of God," the lead knight informed the Abbess. His war stallion pranced under the rider's tight rein, showing the anxiety that his master was trying to keep from his voice.

"Here are midwifes and apprentices, Sir Artimus. There is no physician or surgeon as one of men may need in this house," the Reverend Mother Phyla Mary clearly stated.

The knight bowed his head respectfully, forcing a calmness into his voice. "I pray that any service of medicine is better than none. We are fifty knights escorting the Lord of Lendour home from the war. We have been set upon by the enemy and have secured our victory. Still, several are wounded and require medical attention. The army's battle surgeons are three days behind us. Our need is more immediate."

"We are not battle surgeons, Sir. We are the daughters of Saint Clair and our training is in assisting of women in birth," countered the Reverend Mother.

"But do you not have pain reducing medicines and clean linens for bandaging?" the knight pleaded.

"We do—," answered the Abbess. Jessa could see the head of the convent was not willing to give over even that much to this intrepid knight.

"Then I have been informed by the Earl of Lendour himself to request the convent's assets in this greatest need. Lord Muir is camped but an hour from here. I am to escort what you can offer to my lord there safely."

"You would do better to travel onward to Saint Foillan's Abbey and request the offices of Father Harmon and Father Pernal. They are the infirmarians of the Abbey and would care for war injuries far better than my daughters as midwives," the Abbess proclaimed, remaining hardened to the needs of the knights before her.

"Reverend Mother, I dare say that every minute we waste in discussion is a minute when lives could be lost. The travel to Saint Foillan's is another half hour to there and back here again, plus whatever preparation time they might require. Those minutes could be time that might save lives if medication can be gained. I am especially concerned for Sir Washburn, who is our Knight Captain and our lord's brother. Lord Muir said to inform you that this crisis is a defining moment. He assured me you would offer us the proper assistance in our time of greatest need."

The abbess looked hard into the eyes of the knight, dismayed. A nod of reluctance turned the Reverend Mother's head up to look across the courtyard. Her eyes fell directly on Jessa for a moment, and the novice knew she would be called upon to help in the knight's quest. "Very well, Sir Artimus, I will supply what you have requested. Go send your men onward to the Abbey to enlist the help of the physicians there. Rest yourself but a few minutes by the well. I will have the medical assistance you need ready in but a short time."

"I will need someone who rides; we have no time for litters," the knight requested anxiously.

"So it will be," stated the Reverend Mother, while turning to the nuns around her.

The black haired knight bowed his thanks, and with short quick orders waved his two companion knights out the western gate. He then watered his horse at the well, anxiously waiting. His stance showed his doubt that the convent women could offer more than superficial help. Nevertheless, he was desperate to get any help back in short time.

The Abbess made brisk orders to the sisters under her, and those women quickly disappeared inside to do her bidding. "Have two horses saddled and geared," she commanded Father Taft, who tended the stables on the outer side of the convent walls. It was then that she turned to Sister Vivian, the youngest medical instructor at the basilica. "I am leaving this task in your capable hands."

"Yes Reverend Mother," Sister Vivian responded.

"Gather your things quickly. You will take novice Jessa with you; her small talented hands will be of the greatest use to you." Sister Vivian nodded, understanding the meaning behind the words.

Sister Vivian was ten years older than Jessa. She was the most understanding of Jessa's talent and did her very best to help the healer succeed. When Jessa was called upon to use her inherent healing abilities, it was always under the guidance of Sister Vivian. The tolerant nun found ways to cover Jessa's gift, especially since many would be mortified to find out the truth of a Deryni touching their minds.

"I worry she will not be safe among so many men," Sister Vivian stated with concern.

The knight overheard. Misinterpreting her true meaning, his retort held a singular tone, rebuking the offence. "I will personally guarantee the safety of any woman within my care."

"Yes, Sir Artimus, I trust that you will make it so," the abbess stated flatly. "My two daughters will be ready in a moment. I will follow more slowly with full supplies."

It was a short few minutes later when Sister Vivian and novice Jessa found themselves seated astride a pair of sure-footed mountain ponies. The packs behind Jessa's saddle were filled with supplies. Both she and Vivian were well accustomed to the saddle for riding. It was a required skill to maintain the frequent travels of their midwifery services. Sir Artimus exhibited uneasy tension, wanting desperately to be back on the trail. He had obviously resigned himself to an arduous long travel. Jessa enjoyed the surprise on the knight's face as both women picked up a trot just out of the eastern gate. Once down the tricky descending cliff-side road, they steadied their ponies into a looping canter.

The three reached the Festil Pass just over the hour allotted. It was now two hours after Sir Artimus had last seen the battle site. His eyes reviewed the forming Lendourian camp, looking for signs that his time was good enough. Anxiously, he trotted toward the Cynfyn banner flying over a pavilion now standing in the south side of the riverbed, under the shade of oaks.

Jessa pulled her pony up short just behind the tall knight. Her innocent review of the battle site revealed the gruesome reality of war. Far up the riverbed, a pyre of enemy bodies was burning in a raging thick black cloud. Wild horses, not yet all caught, darted up and down the small valley looking for escape. Piles of weaponry carried by the enemy were mounded on the north side. Dark red and brown splatters covered everything from sand, to rocks, to trees. It was amazing to her that so many men appeared to move around uninjured.

Two men came forward to steady the bridles of the women's ponies. Two more men assisted the women down from their mounts. Unaccustomed to so many men, with all eyes turned their way, Jessa shied back, sliding in close to Vivian.

"Arty!" called the greetings of a tall fair-haired warrior coming out from behind the pavilion's flap entrance. "You made good time. Have you brought a surgeon?" The knight's keen eyes, already strained and creased with anxiety, turned with a flare of hope to Artimus's companions.

"My God, Dillon, is Wash inside? Is he..." The concern in Sir Artimus's tone kept him from voicing his fears.

"He's alive, my friend, but in a bad way," Dillon said with a squeeze to Arty's shoulder. "I don't think there is much time left, though," he said with a doubtful look at the two women; obviously, neither was a physician. Losing heart, he turned to the women in hopes their medicine would be enough. "This way." He sighed in defeat.

Artimus motioned Vivian and Jessa to follow Sir Dillon through the heavy canvas opening. The two women entered the earl's round pavilion. The stark inside had yet to be finished; only a single rug was stretched across the center of the canvas-covered ground. Upon the rug knelt a golden haired man and a brown haired youth. Both were intent on the recumbent man, whose pallor appeared near death. The kneeling warrior in chain-mail held his eyes closed in stressed concentration. His bare hands were placed strategically upon the supine wounded knight; right hand upon the forehead and left hand over the heart. The dying knight's features resembled the kneeling man's; there was no mistaking that the two were kin. The chest of the dying knight rose shallow and slow, matching the forced breathing of his brother above him. Deryni magic, Jessa instantly recognized. The kneeling youth in the Cynfyn livery had tears on his face. His hands were placed over a wad of blood soaked cloth, which he held pressed deeply into a gash at the wounded warrior's waist. Practically ignored, as the least of their worries, was a broken shafted arrow protruding from an exposed wound in the knight's left arm.

Jessa watched Sister Vivian kneel at Sir Washburn's right side and search for a pulse. Her frown deepened as she caught Jessa's eyes. Jessa knew the meaning of her returned somber gaze. She would have to do something quickly if she was to save this man's life.

Jessa froze, her head in pain, her defensive shielding flared up to protect her mind. She looked up, realizing the gold haired knight was the Earl of Lendour. His probing mind was searching hers for identification. The convent novice stepped back, afraid of this high Deryni lord.

"My lord, I am Sister Vivian and the novice with me is Jessa," the nun said with informal greeting. "We've been sent by the reverend mother at your request." With concern she saw the earl's eyes did not leave her novice's face. "Do we have your permission to do what needs to be done?" She turned back to her novice, breaking the girl's stare from that of the Lord of Lendour's. Not understanding Jessa's hesitation her next words were said as a command. "Jessa, clean your hands and sit there, at his left side!" She pointed at the empty space between the earl and the squire.

As commanded, Jessa soaked her hands in a bowl of water, and then let a man pour alcohol into her palms. She rubbed the liquid over her hands and wrists, using the familiar routine to release the tension of her mental shielding. She knelt down across from Sister Vivian with a disquieting fear of the earl. He did not relent from his bombarding gaze as he searched her eyes. Jessa shrunk away from him, trying to think only of the knight on the ground, and how his life depended upon her actions of the next few moments.

Vivian's next words were harsh, as she realized an unusual tension existed between the Earl of Lendour and the healer. "Listen to me! If you want this man to live, you will both do as I request. My lord, I know you do not trust us, but we have strengths that can save your brother's life! I need you to be completely in tune to your brother's needs. Do not be distracted.

"And Jessa, this is no time for timidity. You must be fully prepared to act the moment the pressure is released. We must all do our part, for if one falters, than this man will die!" Both pairs of Deryni eyes turned very serious at the hard truth. "My lord, can you trust us in this?" Sister Vivian asked, pressuring Lord Muir to yield. He was not prepared for such a submission. His hand reached out for Jessa's wrist, he pushed on her mind the moment their skin met. Her shields surrounding her private thoughts stood strong against his surging barrage.

"_Are you the one?" _he demanded within her mind.

Jessa flinched from his touch, but then she sensed the wounded man's heart quiver. She quickly realized she must either stand strong, or let this man die; there was no time to waste in half efforts.

"_I can help him,"_ she declared, fighting back her fear. "_I have a gift, but you must work with me." _She looked up at the strong Deryni man. Finding courage she did not know she had, Jessa held the lord's gaze. _ "Together, with both our strengths, we can find the means to save his life." _

A desperate spark of hope crossed Lord Muir's eyes. He let go of her wrist, returning his hand quickly to his brother's chest, and reestablished the monitoring of his heart rhythm beneath his fingers.

He was connected with his brother and had control of the man's labored breathing and heart rate. Jessa instinctively knew she could not have done so herself; the wounded man's Deryni shields were weak, but not so she, a stranger, could breach them. She had never healed a Deryni before, and did not know how those shields might hinder her ability. Briefly, she prayed she would succeed in this task. She pulled forth a pendant that hung from the chain around her neck. She clasped it tight in her disfigured hand, using the aura within the silver to calm her muscles and center her mind. She found that place where her healing abilities surged with energy. The needs of the man before her empowered her senses. Jessa held her right hand against Vivian's hand on the knight's side in readiness, waiting for the moment when her untested powers would either save Sir Washburn or see him perish.

"Prepare yourselves. When I pull the silk free, we all must act quickly. Ready! Now!" Vivian called.

Jessa felt rather than saw the cloth pulled away from the gaping sword thrust. She drove her right hand deep into the cut, quickly feeling for the sliced vein gushing warm blood across her fingertips. Her fingers found the offensive breech and she focused her talent to seal it closed. Sir Washburn flinched and his pulse weakly fluttered. Lord Muir was there in control. Jessa realized she had to be faster. Her mind searched the wound. The bowel was undamaged, although the kidney was bruised. This, she could not reach with her right fingers to heal. Her left hand released the pendant, and she touched the skin over the ribs. She took her trance down a level and poured healing energy through her disfigured hand. That was when her angel's hands caressed her own. He merged his infinite knowledge through her ability and showed her the way. Together they repaired the organ's damage, dissolving the pooled blood high in the left abdomen, and closed the membrane which held that organ separate from the bowel.

Jessa felt the warmth of her heaven-sent angel. She knew him, and yet she did not. She once believed he had been her father, but after many years and many healings, he had become her healing angel, the one who assisted her when times were most dire. He helped her heal what she had not learned. Here, he showed her where a link of chain mail had lodged under an artery, and how to move it with mental acuity away from the danger of nicking the vessel. She turned her mind around the offensive metal, moving it as he showed her. She succeeded in bringing the link up to her right fingers, pulled it out, and then dropped it on the rug beside her.

Her fingers once more entered the partially healed wound. Her angel's mind shared his knowledge with her. He showed her how to strengthen the body's tissues to defend against the evils of infection. As she succeeded in following his unspoken instruction, the deep grey eyes softened with approval. If only she could talk to him, this apparition of her father's medallion. As she sealed the inner membranes of the abdomen closed, he faded from her. She took in a deep breath, as if she had been afraid to breathe with her angel so near. Lord Washburn, as well, took a gasping breath, and was once more breathing of his own accord. She steadied her mind to gain the energies necessary to pull the abdomen muscles together, and mentally knit the wound closed.

She was disrupted in the attempt. A pair of large, ring-covered hands pulled at her shoulders and moved her aside. Startled and suddenly dizzy with vertigo, she raised her head to see two monsignors of the abbey bluntly take charge of the situation. The earl was aghast with protest on his lips.

Sister Vivian stopped his challenge, her face twisting with her own concerns about the new arrivals. "My lord, your physicians are here. Your brother is in skilled hands. We will return if we are allowed." Jessa, still swaying unsteadily as she stood, allowed the older nun to usher her protectively from the human physicians' sight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 - JK 9.18.985 ****3****rd**** Coin**

Sister Vivian reluctantly pulled her novice healer out of the earl's pavilion and away from the glaring presence of the two abbey physicians of Saint Foillan's. Being forced to leave the side of the wounded knight gnawed at Jessa's nerves. She was shaking when Sister Vivian stopped between the two convent horses, out of sight from the squire guarding the pavilion entrance. The nun opened her saddlebag and pulled out two full skins. The first one, filled with water, she poured over the novice's shaking hands, washing them clean. Afterward she gave the second skin of wine to the healer. "Take a good swallow. There now, tell me, did you do enough? Will the earl's brother survive?" Vivian's voice quavered as she spoke. She was as upset as Jessa at the unexpected interruption.

"I healed all that was deep," Jessa managed to whisper after swallowing the sweet wine. She recounted in her mind all she had done and if it had been enough. "Only the superficial remained," she finally said aloud. She paused to hand back the wine, attempting to gain some control. "Still, I don't know if he will live. Too much blood's been lost. His heart was still has a slight irregularity." Jessa shivered, desperate to return to finish what she had begun. "The earl must continue to monitor him. Then, there is the barb in his arm. It will need to be removed. But not yet! Best to delay that until he is more stable. To lose any more blood will be too much."

"Oh, my dear," Sister Vivian wrung her hands, upset. "How can we warn the earl?" With purpose, she left Jessa and walked back to the pavilion entrance. After speaking to the squire, she waited while he disappeared inside.

A minute later Sir Artimus came walking out of the entrance. He, too, was upset, especially since he had been asked to step outside. When his gaze turned toward Jessa, his face softened and his eyes opened with awe. "You're a healer?" he questioned, when he reached her side. "I never guessed…I beg you, please don't leave Sir Washburn."

"I don't want to—" Jessa whispered. She looked across at Sister Vivian pleading for permission. "Please let me return. Is this secret so necessary to keep?" she desperately asked.

"From the earl? I think not; he already knows," Vivian stated with her voice low, "but from the abbey monsignors —? They can't ever find out your blood heritage. Even for this nobleman's sake, I won't allow you anywhere near the influence of those priests. You understand me in this, don't you?" Jessa nodded surprised how protective her mentor had become. She had not known that Vivian cared so deeply. "We will have to find a way to get you near the knight again, as soon as they move on." Vivian promised in a voice that was soft but stern. She turned to Sir Artimus. "Don't ask us to return until the Monsignors depart. I won't risk Jessa. The priests of that abbey have a long history of burning Deryni at the stake. She won't live out the week if they find out." Only when Artimus sadly nodded his agreement did Sister Vivian urgently whisper her further concern. "The earl's brother's life is still at high risk. Please, as discreetly as you can, inform the Lord of Lendour that he must delay the removal of the arrowhead. The additional shock could be more than the wounded lord can endure."

Artimus bit his lip. He placed his right hand into Jessa's open palm. Surprised to find him Deryni, she cupped her hand around his and timidly opened a limited mind link. Through the link, she passed on what she knew of Sir Washburn's unstable condition. He accepted her insight with grim determination. He turned from the women quickly, retreating into the pavilion entrance.

Jessa took a cleansing breath. For the moment, there was nothing more she could do. She looked at the camp around her and began to realize, contrary to her first impression, that many working to make camp were injured themselves, just not so greatly hurt that they could not complete their tasks before being looked after by their own. The young healer wanted to help them all, but knew she had neither the energy, nor the tact, to approach them. She walked down the trampled river sands with Vivian behind, and came upon four knights lying prone in the sand; their cloaks were wrapped around their bodies, and their heads rested upon their shields as if asleep. Tears filled Jessa's eyes. With very few exceptions, she had avoided the sight of death, ever since that long ago childhood horror.

"Sister Vivian, I have a word from my Lord Muir," Sir Artimus called from behind, drawing the convent women's attention away from the dead. "He wants me to tell you that Sir Washburn is breathing and resting much more easily now." The knight stepped in closer, his voice low for only the two women to hear. "Muir has taken your warning, and is prepared to act as necessary. The monsignors seem perturbed that Wash's wounds seem less serious than they were led to believe. For that, I am deeply in your debt. They at least can see the Knight Captain's weakness. Therefore, they agreed to postpone the removal of the arrow. For now, they are suturing the wound closed. Can I convince you to come back inside?"

Jessa took a step forward, but Sister Vivian put a hand to her arm and held her back. "Sir, when the priests have departed, we will do all we can. But I will not take the risk of Jessa being near them." Vivian was adamant in this stance.

"Very well," Artimus said, understanding the difficulty all too well. He turned his head to search the organizing camp, and then pointed toward a second hanging of canvas from tent poles over an open-sided pavilion. "We have other wounded. Is there anything you can do to ease the pain of these men?"

"Yes," Sister Vivian replied, "We will do what we can in the time we are allowed." The knight understood her meaning. "Lead us, please."

They came to a row of eight wounded knights lying under the second pavilion roof. An older knight commanded the infirmary with a team of squires attending to the injured. He responded to Artimus's inquiry with a sad shake of his head.

"Sir Thomas is the most greatly hurt, though I do not believe anything can be done to help him." All eyes turned to the farthest knight lying motionless on the canvas-covered hard ground.

Jessa held her breath, scanning the middle-aged face and grey streaked brown hair, comparing it to the image in her dreams. Could it be the same man? She was certain that it was. Instantly on her knees, she brushed her fingers around the cloth a squire held tight against Sir Thomas's bare upper chest. Her assessment proved a sword thrust had punctured the right upper chest wall. His breathing was shallow and labored.

Looking upward at Sir Artimus, who appeared stricken by the plight of another friend, Jessa asked the moral question that had often stayed her hands in the past. "You have seen that of which I am capable. Sir, if I do what must be done, will there be repercussions? Many fear a Deryni's touch."

"My lady, we are all Knights of the house of Cynfyn. Every man among us has known the touch of the energies wielded by our earl. If your gift can help this man, then all here will be grateful," Artimus said with pleading in his voice. She looked up at the squire present and saw only curiosity in his eyes.

The novice healer was self-conscious of the necessary touch of this man's mind that would be required to heal his body. She made a quick prayer with the medallion cupped between both hands. Using the medallion as a focus point, she centered her powers and tuned her senses to the wounded knight before her. She reached the level of trance required to energize her healing talent. Only then did she release the pendant and place both her palms over Sir Thomas's brow. Briefly, she remembered the man in her youth. He was the one who had brought her nightmare to a close. She knew now he had only done his duty, but his manner had been kind and his patience with her reassuring. She could do no less than to return the debt. Gently, she entered his mind.

For a moment, she wondered if men's minds were so different from women's, for in her touch she found a resistance, a thickness that took a slow wading to pass through. With healing affirmation, the resistance parted. Now she was at the back of the mind, touching the breathing controls. She eased the tendrils of her control over his stressed nerves. She spent a long moment focusing the balance of his respiration, allowing the good lung to fill with air at a deeper volume and at a more regular interval. She took the pain from the right side and blocked it from his mind. The knight's faded constitution took on a softer color as air revitalized the tissues.

It was of no wonder that humans feared Deryni. At a touch, a human mind was open to the energies of a Deryni. Unlike the magical race, humans were without shielding, leaving them vulnerable to unwanted intrusions. This was the common fear that led to the harrowing of the Deryni people seventy years before. Humans always feared the worst, thinking every touch was devilry, every intrusion done with evil intent. Jessa could never imagine doing harm. To her, all healing energies were benign, a gift of goodness and caring, a gift from the heavens to help mortals survive. Reverend Mother Phyla Mary had found the ancient Oath of the Healer's creed, 'To do no harm. To be benign and nurturing in all ways, at all times…' This one oath Jessa had made and reaffirmed regularly before the abbess. Sir Thomas was now under her full influence, but had he known, then he would also have known she could no more do harm to him than she would to a newborn infant.

With her right hand, she helped Vivian clean away the dried blood and torn cloth from the sword gash. Centering down once again, she called on her healing gifts. The soft apparition in grey-cowled robes appeared next to her, his hands and face close to hers. Without further preamble, she thrust her fingers between the two ribs and deep into the wound. Thomas's body froze in shock. The muscles held tight for the few seconds it took to pour her healing energies into the cut. She healed the tissues, pulling out as many of the clots from the inner tissue as she could. As she pulled her fingers from the chest, the body eased and began to breathe again. She found the collarbone smashed from the initial impact of the sword cut and lifted the splintered bone fragments back into place. The words of the text she had just read hours before finally had meaning. This is what they meant by using the manipulative kinetics of her focused forward thoughts. That successfully accomplished, she took a moment to search the rest of the body. She healed torn tendons of the shoulder and minor cuts to the warrior's frame.

As she came out of trance, she smiled at the white knight, noting his eyes opened wide, staring straight at her. As her angel dissipated, she touched the man's surprised mind. "_You can rest easy now, Sir Thomas. You will feel much better when you wake." _She willed the knight to close his eyes and sleep.

Jessa sighed, happy with her own success. The adrenaline faded. Drops of perspiration fell from her forehead, and a wave of dizziness forced her to close her eyes. She held her breath for a moment and steadied her perception of the outside world. When she opened her eyes this time, the ground held still, and she could focus on the patient beneath her fingers. She was pleased to see the fresh healed skin and the now eased breathing of Sir Thomas. Briefly, into his mind, she sent out a warm greeting from an orphaned girl of years long past. Later, when he awoke, he should have no recollection of a healer's touch, but somewhere in his subconscious, he would know that there was one who cared.

Vivian made a quick fuss of covering the bare man's chest as Sir Artimus and the attending squire stared on in amazement. The art of healing had not been seen in the king's land in many years.

"No one can know," Vivian said softly to the men.

The healer wavered in her exhaustion. She had never accomplished two consecutive healings, one upon the other, until now. It surprised her how weak it made her feel. She stood with assistance and moved over two wounded men to a knight that had a deep cut across his sword arm and a heavy, barbed war arrow embedded in his knee. She was introduced to Sir Ronald, who was awake and watching the women with interest.

"Are you in much pain?" Vivian asked, kneeling at the man's side.

"Not much," his gritty voice lied. "Just don't touch it," he requested, indicating the arrow in his leg. No one had yet removed the mail chausses that the short-shafted crossbow arrow pierced through.

Jessa knelt next to Vivian, her fingers moving across the armor. She shook her head. "I do not have the experience to handle such a delicate withdrawing," she announced with concern. Sir Ronald nodded in understanding. The young knight, no more than twenty years of age, closed his eyes against the possibility that he might lose his leg. "I can help you in other ways until the surgeons arrive. Will you permit me to heal your other wound?"

"How could I say nay to a pretty lady such as you?" he asked with a smile, but instantly he gritted his teeth and grimaced when his knee flinched of its own accord.

Jessa's heart ached with the knight's pain. She wanted desperately to help him, but she could not find the focus to her healing talent. Her hands shook from the attempt until Sir Artimus abruptly placed his hand upon the healer's bare wrist. His energy bolstered her talent and revitalized her stamina. With a resurgence of power, Jessa placed her hand over Sir Ronald's open eyes and willed the knight to sleep. She calmed his pain and then turned her attention to the cut that rendered the young man's sword arm useless. Vivian cleaned the wound, exposing the raw muscle under the clotted blood. When the nun had finished, Jessa moved over to the arm, placing both hands over the wound, and sent a surge of healing into the flesh before she might lose her control. She was glad when the muscles mended and the skin knitted closed under her touch.

"So the Lendour knights are not invincible!" stated a booming voice from beyond the tent. "Why did you not tell me there were honest injured men to be tended to?" The younger abbey physician, Father Pernal, stepped into the infirmary. He spoke to Sir Paulson who'd accompanied him from the earl's pavilion. There was a hard look of malice in the priest's gaze, as his eyes flashed back to that place. The look disappeared as his gaze came back to the convent women kneeling at Sir Ronald's side. "How can I help here?" His voice softened as he came over to kneel beside Sister Vivian.

Jessa attempted to recover inconspicuously from her healing trance. She wiped her bloodied hands on a discarded cloth, then fussed with a length of Sir Ronald's hair, brushing it back from his closed eyes. She silently assured herself of the knight's forced sleep before she looked up to see Father Pernal's disdainful look at her.

Sir Artimus instantly bristled, drawing the physician's attention to the arrow in the armored knee. The surgeon scrutinized the problem and discussed removing the right chausses without disturbing the arrow shaft. There was no knowing the damage done underneath until the chain mail was freed.

As the men talked, Vivian tried to get Jessa to leave, not liking her so close to the priest. Jessa, however, was carefully monitoring Sir Ronald's life forces and did not dare to withdraw. Playing the innocent novice, she wrung a fresh cloth in a bowl of water and dabbed at the perspiration on the knight's forehead. She would stay in Sir Ronald's mind and help him diminish the anguish about to come. Vivian said nothing, but looked at her, questioning the risk of such a maneuver. Jessa was certain the priest no longer noticed her, an arm's length away.

Sir Artimus firmly held the arrow's base with one hand, and then snapped the shaft close to his fingers with his dagger. Together, he and Pernal lifted the mail over the protruding shaft. Once that was cleared it was easy to remove the rest of the chausses and woolen padding down and over the foot. They exposed the swollen, large clotted wound around the penetrating wood. Without much addendum, Father Pernal took his knife to the skin. He sliced a wider area to make room to pull the arrowhead free. The sleeping knight gasped and Jessa turned pale. Dropping her head down low to hide her focus, she forced more control over the man's pain. If the physician thought it was queasiness on the novice's part, all the better. Jessa's trance linked deeper with the mind she held in her hands. She took the young knight down into full unconsciousness, away from the trauma of the moment.

Father Pernal never seemed to notice, thinking his patient had fallen naturally unconscious. Thereafter, the arrow was extracted with more care. The barb, when it came free, was as big as a child's fist; its double-sided jagged edges had been honed to cutting sharpness. This human creation was meant as an instrument of death. Jessa shivered, knowing a mate to this one was still embedded in Sir Washburn's arm. The physician held the barb up for inspection. It was whole; no broken metal had been left inside the knee. Vivian, aghast, commented on the Torenthi's barbarism. None of the men could disagree.

The surgeon sutured the wound closed and bandaged it tight. He passingly commented on the narrow chance of the wound healing true, that the young man might never bend his knee again. Both Artimus and Vivian looked up at Jessa, pleading for a better outcome. When Father Pernal moved down the line to the next injured man, taking Vivian with him, Jessa stayed behind, appearing queasy. Quietly, unnoticed, she moved down to the man's leg, slipping her fingers under the bandage edge, and healed the knee clean. This brave young knight she was certain would have no limp or further complication from that ill-placed arrow.

Now she was truly fatigued. Jessa swayed on her knees. The world before her eyes did a slow swirling circle. She had to drop her head into her hands to stop the spin. Sister Vivian took note of her condition, but could not leave her new job of assisting the physician priest. She rightly assessed that her Deryni healer had reached an end to her endurance. Jessa had used more energy than she had ever before.

"Sir Artimus?" Vivian asked distractedly, "I think the heat has faded young Jessa. Her delicate nature has never seen this type of devastation before. Perhaps you could find a quiet, safe place for her to rest?"

The priest's voice piqued with distaste. "Why did you bring such an unconditioned girl to such a site as this?" he asked. "Her delicate nature, as you say, is of no use here." He made no attempt to hide his nasty tone.

Vivian barely hid her own outrage. "I needed an assistant, and she was the only one of the few who could ride at the pace required to get here."

The physician huffed at the wasted effort but let the matter go. Vivian's eyes narrowed, gaining Sir Artimus's attention; it was time to get Jessa away.

The Deryni knight came to Jessa's side. He hesitated to give his hand out to the young woman, afraid to appear too forward, but Jessa could hardly move to stand on her own. With a quick glance at Pernal, whose back was turned, hunched over another wounded man, Artimus took the chance and covered the novice's forehead with his palms.

"_Let me show you a spell that will help,"_ he said into her mind. She could barely resist his touch. He recited words of power. Her dizziness calmed, and her head cleared. She looked up at him as his hands pulled away. She clasped his wrist amazed.

"_What was that? Could you teach that to me, please_?" she beseeched. He smiled warmly back, and mentally repeated the words that would banish fatigue from the body and mind.

"_It is a simple spell. One of the first taught to young adults. I am surprised you did not know of it_," the knight said lightly. Jessa locked the spell into her memory; that one would be of great use.

"Thank you," she said aloud. If only she could tell him, how much she did not know. How much she needed another Deryni to show her. Artimus had a strong, mature face that held an aura of confidence and security. His protective nature reminded her of the way her father had been. She did not resist his outstretched hands to lift her off the ground and steady her stance.

"_Come away and rest a while. I will find out when you can return to Sir Washburn_." She followed him back toward the outer edge of the earl's pavilion. He laid out a bedroll for her to sit upon and brought her drink and rolls to eat.

Distractedly, she watched the area settle into becoming a camp. The last of the wild horses were caught up. A huge string of the enemy's coursers lined the north cliff face. Fortunately, at her current vantage point, the trees blocked the view of the horrific bonfire in the east. She turned from that sight and watched the white pavilion where the earl and his brother remained inside. Her mind kept sensing that Sir Washburn was still in need; she had to find a way to get back to see him, but the older priest would not leave his side. She was so very tired in mind and body. She lay down, closed her eyes, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Harsh words punctuated by a curse reverberated beyond the canvas walls. Jessa woke fully alert as more angry voices echoed inside the tent. A man yelled out in pain, and then all too sharply fell silent. Jessa jumped up in instinct, she found herself running toward the pavilion. She crashed in through the canvas flap just as Sir Dillon was forcing the older surgeon priest out the entrance. Father Harman's gaze fell upon the novice of the convent and he laughed at her. His hands were covered in bright red blood. He carried the broken arrow in his fist, and then waved it before her like a trophy won. "Fine, let the nuns suture his wounds," the belligerent priest called back with a snide smirk. "All this fuss for superficial cuts. Now I see how inferior Deryni really are."

Horrified, Jessa ran passed him, into the center of the pavilion. What she saw was worse than her fears. Sir Washburn Cynfyn's arm lay in a puddle of his own blood. Lord Muir held one hand heavily over the gushing wound, while his other hand lay across the dying man's brow. Desperately, he tried to stay off death. There was a tourniquet across the left upper arm, but not tightly constricted; not enough to stop the bleeding emanating from the severed artery in the forearm. That buffoon of a priest did not know what he had done, or did he?

Jessa threw herself beside the bleeding arm, deliberately forcing Muir's hand aside. Her fingers swiftly found the open wound in the mass. She forced a healing so quickly through her two long fingers that she was stunned when the artery closed and the seeping of blood ended. With an inhaled breath, she regained a clearer focus and reviewed the wound thoroughly. Very quickly, she pulled the fragments of bone together and knitted the tendons back to their proper place. Mere seconds had past when she pulled her hand away; beneath it, there was not even a scar, just a deep stain on the carpet. Quickly, she released the tourniquet, and for a painfully slow moment, she watched color return to the hand.

When she looked up at Muir, she knew how close it had been. He was still in full control of his brother's vitals, for even now, the Knight Captain could not sustain them on his own. Fighting back frightened tears, she watched the earl. His trance was so deep he did not see her there. He struggled with the energies keeping his brother alive. He was not a healer and this was as far as his Deryni energies could allow. Bravely, Jessa slipped her right hand under his fingers upon the captain's bare chest and slipped back into trance. This time she joined with Muir, asking him to let her within his shields. She was surprised when a tightly focused mind abruptly allowed her into his.

"_He is dying. Those priests would kill him simply for their hatred of what we are. Please do what you can to save my brother_." The earl opened red, exhausted, pleading eyes up to hers.

The link that Muir opened gave her passage within Sir Washburn's shields. This gave her controls she could not have managed before. She strengthened Muir's focus on the heart's weak rhythm. The loss of blood was great and only time would see it replenished. Could they earn enough time? She felt through the weakness and found fever starting in the already tortured frame. With her deformed hand, she pulled aside the bandage from the left abdomen. A rare curse passed her lips. That surgeon priest had purposely not tended the stitches equally, leaving gaps where debris had entered the wound. Did the priests so hate Deryni that they would allow even one as highly placed as the earl's brother to die from neglect?

Jessa once more pulled forth the silver medallion from the inside of her gown. She slipped it off her neck and placed it under her right hand, near the dying man's heart. The medallion gave her courage, and she prayed that its magical aura would enhance the energies required to accomplish this task. With her left hand over the stitches, she focused all her strength into the abused flesh. She was gladdened to see that the inflammation was shallow, it did not come from the deep healing she had accomplished earlier. She took her trance down to fully heal the wound; she was grateful when the familiar hands of her angel brushing next to hers. His touch reinforced her mind, showing her how to purify the wound and heal from inside to out the last of this horrific sword thrust.

Jessa faltered from the energy drain. She could not do this alone. Timidly, she reached out to Lord Muir through their rapport. She asked him to release what he could to help her. Power poured through his hands into hers. In that instant, she felt the surprise in Lord Muir's mind. He became aware of the otherworldly entity floating between them. She assured him of the apparition's benign presence. Never before had anyone held this experience with her, and it gladdened her to know she was not the only one to experience this heavenly angel.

The two Deryni exhausted their reserve of conscious energy, but still the wounded knight's breathing would not resume on its own. There came a moment when Jessa did not dare to take more, for fear that if she or Lord Muir fainted, their patient was certain to die. They were going to lose this battle. There had been too much trauma and blood loss to allow recovery. In the moment of most need, Lord Muir and Jessa watched the heavenly ghost stretch his arms over Sir Washburn, and then seemingly, the apparition lowered his form into the body of the dying man.

Wash took in a great gulp of air. The blue eyes of the warrior opened wide with an awed look of astonishment. The apparition reappeared, rising upward, then hovered above the wide eyes of the Knight Captain.

"Is this it then? Is this death?" Sir Washburn whispered to the angel above him. If so, he was ready to leave behind the torment of this world.

The angelic figure smiled warmly, and then motioned toward the porcelain maiden in godly attire. He gestured for the knight to seek her comfort. Washburn raised his right hand to the woman's soft, fair-skinned cheek. Without question, he poured what remaining energy he had into her being, believing her the conduit to his passing.

At his touch, Jessa glowed with a soft golden halo. The brightness of it engulfed his arm and rushed over his body.

In this euphoria, he was prepared to die.

Jessa instinctively tilted her face heavily against Washburn's outstretched hand, and then cupped her right hand over his, holding it there in a frozen caress. _ "Nay Sir, you will not die today," _she assured him, revealing herself fully to the Knight Captain. She was Deryni and Healer. She accepted his gift of energy, which she purified in a brilliance of gold. A sudden surge of warmth and health flowed out from her and infused both brothers with the energies of life renewed.

The heavenly angel raised his arms in benediction. All three Deryni, their essences linked soul to soul, experienced the angelic blessing of his embrace. The giving of vitality and energy escalated to an experience of rapture beyond any other moment in their lives.

The miracle was complete. Bliss washed across the room as the ghostly angel departed from their eyes.

Stunned, Muir fell out of the link. He backed away as the brilliant energy of life, in the form of golden light, continued to encompass the man and woman in the center of the pavilion. Washburn raised himself up on his right elbow, his left hand continued to embracing the healer's cheek. Jessa, on her knees, held her hand over his.

They, neither of them, willingly chose to release the gift that they shared. They remained in a state of mutual rapport, sharing their own intimate joys of life. The Knight Captain shared his loyalty and duty to the king, along with the family responsibilities he shared with his brother. He let the warmth of his gratitude extend over her presence. He exclaimed in wonder of her skill and the joy of her beauty. She blushed and showed him the life she had made for herself at the convent of Saint Clair: the study of medicine, and her apprenticeship with Sister Vivian as midwife. She shared the healings she had accomplished, and he responded with amazement and awe of the skill she possessed. She, in turn, was warmed by his interest, and his genuine concern for her secretive profession.

He knew well the dangers of those who lived in fear and hate. The status of the Cynfyn family was secured by the protection of the Kings of Gwynedd. However, today, that protection had been willfully neglected. Purposely, it seemed, the priests of Saint Foillan's were willing to let a Deryni of nobility wither away from unclean wounds, or when that was not a quick enough death, sever an artery and watch the man pour his life's blood on the carpet.

Pushing past the outrage, knowing that it did more harm than good, the two Deryni buried the negative feelings behind them. They reached a positive sharing that hinted at the depth of their souls. Two strangers, no longer unfamiliar, combined the joys of their lives and found peace in their union.

An interrupting whistle penetrated their reverie. Sir Artimus was at the pavilion entrance trying to warn the healer away. The real world was brought back into play. The priest physicians were returning and both were angry.

As Muir's hands lifted the healer's body from the carpet, Jessa's parting thoughts to Sir Washburn were to ensure his rest and regained good health. His to her were for her to return soon, to ensure just those things occurred. She blushed as their hands parted, and she let Muir lead her to the back of the pavilion through a side of an untied flap. In the earl's parting words, he took her hand and kissed its back. "_I cannot express enough thanks to you for saving him. I promise no human will know of your miracle." _

Never in her healing career had the maiden felt so overtaxed yet entirely elated from the touch of another. She benignly touched human thought as the need required, though none would ever have memories of such. This last was so much more, a sharing of two minds, a complete trust she had never imparted before. Was it only because this knight was Deryni, or only because she had saved his life? Somehow, her heart quivered; she wanted it to be so much more. She smiled at her own idealism. He was of the nobility and a knight; she a mere orphan. After this day, their lives would never cross paths again. For a moment that thought dashed her smile away. Reality said it was only his Deryniness that made them seem so right for one another. Nevertheless, her heart and her soul could not let go of the notion that there had been a true moment of oneness, a connection between them that forever would remain unbroken.

She found her way back to the bedroll she had used previously, and sat down upon it. Her mind was in turmoil, her body in exhaustion. She would have slept then but for the raised angry voices from the tent within. The earl was emphatically informing the surgeons that their services for his brother were no longer welcome.

Both priests left the pavilion together. The older monsignor muttered about heresy, while the younger father bit his lip and said not a word.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 - JK 9.18.985 3****rd**** Coin **

Three wagons rolled into the makeshift camp filled with supplies for the battle weary knights. Tent canvas, food supplies, and medicine were unpacked in orderly fashion. The company was thankful for the supplies, as they had expected to be in Cynfyn by sunset, causing their provisions to be thin. The canvas made into several shelters. Each went up quickly around the earl's already standing pavilion. Several cooking pits sprung up before the shelters, allowing fresh stews and rolls to warm in large pots on the fires. Cots came out to get the wounded off the ground, and camp chairs allowed some to sit and rest, at least temporarily, before finding other jobs to do. The work slowly got finished, with more and more of the men settling by the fires in the fading light. As the camp settled, the brethren of the abbey, of which there were about a dozen in total, made time to move among the warriors, offering medical and spiritual aid to anyone that requested it. Minor cuts and bone breaks were treated with care. The dead were given absolution, and their comrades were consoled. Such were the hazards of war; all the men were quite familiar with the hardships, and were grateful to the abbey brothers for making it less so.

Quite contrary were the experiences of the three women with the Abbess from the convent. None of them had been this close to a battle aftermath before. Nonetheless, they bore the experience without complaint. Sister Isabel had accompanied Reverend Mother Phyla Mary among the supply wagons from the abbey. Upon arrival, the Mother had entered the earl's pavilion with the senior members of the abbey, and as yet she was still within, even after the abbey priests departed. Sister Isabel took it upon herself to excuse Sister Vivian from her ministrations to the wounded. She requested Vivian to stay with Jessa, off to the side. Neither woman was too pleased with this sudden over-guarded protection. Soon a small pavilion was set up near the earl's, and once completed, Sister Isabel ushered the two women inside, out of sight of the men. She seemed of the opinion that upon the brethren's arrival, her sisters of the convent were completed in their assigned task. Both Jessa and Vivian felt quite the opposite; there was so much more they could be doing. At the very least, Jessa desired to return to Sir Thomas and Sir Ronald to confirm their improved health. She, however, was not permitted to leave the pavilion now that she was trapped within it. Jessa sat on a cot in the corner, too emotional to rest. She turned the silver medallion on its chain repeatedly, desperate for news.

Mother Phyla Mary returned pleased by the praise Lord Muir had bestowed on her novice Healer. Though she had not seen him, she had been informed that the Knight Captain was now sleeping comfortably behind a curtained off section. He had been given a sleeping draught to help regain his depleted strength, but by private account from the earl himself, the young novice had saved his brother's life. A separate accounting from Father Pernal praised Sister Vivian's assistance, but scorned Jessa for her inexperience. This too pleased the Reverend Mother, proving their deception had not been broken.

When asked, Jessa truthfully told them she had seen the lord's wounded brother a second time. She quietly told them of his horrific treatment received from the physicians, and the condition the priest had left him in. In brief, with little detail, she explained the quick Healing required. The women were in awe after her short recitation. Still, there was much Jessa held back: the apparition of her angel, for one, and the communion of mind and soul with the healed man, for another. She was not willing to share these things with anyone.

Now that the convent women had successfully fulfilled their duty, Mother Phyla Mary formed plans to retreat early the following morning. They would be within their own convent walls before the majority of the encampment was broken down, and the host made ready to travel on its last four-hour stretch to Castle Cynfyn. Exhaustion outweighed emotions, and Jessa finally succumbed to an uneasy sleep on her cot in the far corner.

As full darkness enveloped the camp, the sudden sounds of stomping horse hooves and whining cries broke the silence. All the women, jarred from their private reveries, ran out of their pavilion only to see three men attempting to calm a large, injured horse. The black war stallion staggered, whinnied in agony, and then staggered again. He snorted with haggard breathing. The commotion brought the earl out into the night. His eyes were stricken with pain as he recognized the stallion. Voices near at hand spoke of concern, and Jessa quickly realized the warhorse was Sir Washburn's own mount.

The stallion flinched and reared as hands brushed at a hard protrusion sticking just out from his deep chest. The area was swollen and caked with dried blood. Apparently, no one had noticed it until now. Hands tried to sooth the animal, allowing the arriving physicians to get closer to examine the mass. The frown on Father Pernal's face told the whole story.

"It's a cross bolt shaft the same as we removed from Sir Ronald's knee. That's 14 inches in length." He scowled toward Muir. "This horse is alive on his strength of will alone. Removing that shaft will kill him assuredly, but neither can it remain." Father Pernal shook his head waiting for the earl to make the call. The stallion, 'Shadowed Nights', quivered. His four locked knees seemed the only thing keeping him standing. Muir's glance came around to Jessa, pleading. She well understood his request. Even before all these men, she would do anything for the house of Cynfyn.

Jessa took a step forward, only to have two sets of hands grab her at the sides and pull her back. Mother Phyla Mary and Sister Vivian held her firmly in the back of the crowd. Not even for the life of so noble a steed would they allow their Healer to become discovered before the monsignors of the Abbey. Muir nodded to them, defeated. She had saved his brother; he would not risk her now for a horse, even Washburn's great war stallion.

Earl Muir sighed deeply. Shadow staggered, blowing hard, unable to breathe. One last whinny and the horse's knees unbuckled, sending the stallion floundering to the sand. With haste, Muir was there at the R'Kassi head, his expression stricken by knowing what he must do next. He quieted the strong-willed horse with hands over his eyes. As the black stallion's thrashing quieted, the Earl of Lendour brushed the open wound with his hand. His fingers appeared to clench in anger, then release, and then clench again. Only a few men were close enough to hear their lord murmur a series of harsh foreign words. Though few noticed it, Jessa saw that his fist clenched and unclenched with the rhythm of the syllables. Then, suddenly, his fingers closed tight. Shadow stiffened and then relaxed, head to the ground, eyes vacant.

Muir lowered his head in grief. Jessa let out a short scream and buried her face in Vivian's shoulder. With just a touch, she could have save the proud stallion, but of those who knew this truth, they also knew the need for protecting her secret. To them that was greater than the need of the life of that fine animal. At that moment, Jessa hated the world and everyone in it. Unable to do anything otherwise, the women half carried her back into the pavilion, away from prying eyes. Jessa continued to cry until the Reverend Mother gave her a sleeping draught. Even then, she seemed to cry in her sleep.

Jessa's world was turned around. The eighteen year old woke in the predawn hours in misery, her faith shaken. With the death of a horse, the innocence of convent life was torn away. She desperately wanted a caring arm to support her through the turmoil. The sisters of the convent were her guardians, but her closest friends had moved on. There was no one left in the convent that would understand this traumatic questioning of her powers and her beliefs. She had been stunned by the harsh reality of being Deryni in a world that condemned that existence. Until now, her life had been carefully guided between the lines of prejudice, and guarded from the hatred. This first foray outside that protection had made a frightening impression upon the maiden.

Desperately wanting someone to show her what her true heritage meant, she thought of Sir Artimus and his secure hands holding hers. He was thoughtful and strong. He had already shown her things she had never known. She could learn from him easily. The Earl of Lendour, too, was a gracious man, powerful and authoritative, though far above teaching an orphaned child her roots. The younger Lord Cynfyn... her mind paused at the memory of his touch. That stolen moment of their accord was so profound it enveloped every part of her senses. She questioned if it had been real, or only a dream. She lay there within the dark pavilion wondering, had he truly responded to her in kind, or was it just the whimsy of an exhausted maiden's mind? She admonished herself for thinking it was more than the healing of a sorely wounded life. He would thank her for that gift, but it was beyond reason that a man of his standing would ever love a common girl such as herself. Realism lost its sway as she played with the imaginings of life as his wife; his love forever hers, her children forever his. She toyed with the musings and found peace there.

She had made no binding vows to the Church. Even had she wished it, Mother Phyla Mary had forbidden her from such a life. She was told that Deryni women were welcome to live within the convent walls but they could not lawfully marry the house of God; her soul would be damned and if discovered her life would be at the mercy of the abbot. Mother Phyla Mary did assure Jessa that if she practiced no more than the benign gift of Healing, she would be protected within the walls of the convent for all her living days. Jessa's life was not leisurely. Her daily chores often took late into the night to complete, but her life was safe and she was thankful to the sisters of Saint Clair for this protection. Deep in her heart, she now realized she wanted more. She ached for the love of family and the desire to have children with whom she could share what her father had once given her: a parent's love.

At the darkest hour before dawn, Jessa could stand the weight of her mind no longer. She stood quietly and wrapped a shawl over her shoulders. She tiptoed silently across the rugs and slid out into the dark night. The fires had died down and the horses had quieted; there was barely a sound to be heard around the camp. A guard a few paces away turned to watch her. If he would just turn away, she might find her courage. Courage to seek the embrace from the man who seemed to understand her; just to have his strong arms holding her tight the way her father had done would be worth more than all the riches of the Kingdom. She would settle for returning to the younger Lord Cynfyn's side, if only to reassure herself of his recovery. For a novice the mere idea of entering a warrior's tent alone was far too brash to ponder. She could never dare such a thing. Annoyed by the way the guard keenly watched her, she gave up her insane plan and sadly turned back into the nun's pavilion.

The Reverend Mother was standing just inside watching her.

"You cannot see him again," her guardian whispered sternly. Was she Deryni? Had she read Jessa's mind?

A tear brushed the young, pale cheek. "If you say I mustn't, than that must be so, but I am suddenly lost, I…" She could not explain, dared not explain, what thoughts his touch had inspired.

The old abbess softened in her expression. She wrapped an arm about her novice whom she had watched grow from the age of six and into adulthood. "In time, dear, you will see that your life in the convent will offer more freedom than any secular marriage. You have saved many lives this last day, and those who know of it will always love you for it. That love, however, is not the same as what brings a man to a woman. Men of station marry for family positioning, wealth, and the prospect of heirs. Very different, I suspect, than the romance stories I hear you young girls read."

Saddened and embarrassed that her thoughts were so apparent to one who could not possibly have read her mind, Jessa bowed her head. "I am forbidden to give my hand to God, and neither can I give it to a man. What is to become of me?" Her whisper was so infused with pain that the abbess, in a rare gesture, gathered the girl in her arms and hugged her close.

"There is time aplenty to figure that out. No need to worry it out just now. Come back to sleep, there are still a few hours before we are homeward traveling." The abbess walked her back to her cot and watched the girl lay back down before returning to sleep herself. Jessa did manage an hour of rest before dawn.

The early morning saw the four women packed and traveling by wagon westward along the road, well before the eighty or so men and youths were readying to break down camp. Jessa imaged, or so she thought, a pair of vibrant blue eyes starring from the entrance of the earl's pavilion. A whisper of "_Thank you, sweet angel of mine_," brushed her mind. She stared back toward the tent, but no one was there. In her shaken state, she prayed it had been real. Not certain of so many things, she wondered all the way home if maybe instead her mind had made it up, and she had imagined it?

* * *

"There you are. I thought for sure, by now, you would have quit this dusty old office, and found the sun shining brightly outside more to your liking." A tall handsome man in black leathers and green velvets swept into the room with a subtle flourish that was so natural to his gait that he was not even aware of the consternation it caused in the eyes of the women who would witness it. Richenda was not immune to its effects, even after four years of marriage. She suspected that it was that glint in her smile each time that reinforced his self-assurance, and she did not intend to ever suppress that.

"Briony is down there chasing Brendan and Derry around the old gardens. The boys are indulging her whimsy that she is a dragon swooping in and they are knights protecting the old oak tree. Our three year old is running free like a banshee."

"And you left Derry there alone to run reins on her? He is a real knight and an earl in his own right, not our children's nurse maid." She looked up admonishingly.

"Oh, Uncle Seandry loves Briony like she was his own daughter. He can handle her for a time. Derry and I were just leaving the vaults and stepping into the sun when our little girl escaped the care of her governesses to ambush us. I don't know where she gets all this energy. Were you this wild as a girl?" The blond lord stepped round the table, absently dropping three swords upon it and reached down to kiss his wife's lips with a lustful need.

Blushing, she held back; he would not win her over so easily. "And you, my Lord Alaric, would have no influence on our little girl? I dare say you indulge her too much and let her run wild; the fault, Sir, is all yours."

"I was a boy of total decorum, never permitted to run _wild_," he responded with false severity.

"Oh I recall a few memories shared that would tell quite another story." She looked up at him with bright, shining eyes. His gaze softened as his lips widened to a mischievous smile. Oh, how that smile melted her heart! Still she was not ready to give in. When he would enfold his arms around her, she distracted him, pointing to the three blades discarded on the table.

"What in your treasure hunting have you recovered here?"

His fingers caressed her check, than he turned back to the treasure trove he had rescued from the armory in the dungeons at the castle's feet. He separated out a dagger, short sword, and long sword. All three were matching in hilt and scabbard. The scabbards were made of steel, inlaid with white gold and red enameled designs, not of the ornamental kind worn at court, but strong and serviceable with a wealthy flair. At inspection, their appearance showed slight burnishing and an occasional dent, all indicative of long years of use. The hilts of all three were black pearl inlaid with white gold filigree and small rubies. The gold thread-wrapped handholds were well worn and in need of repair. The long sword appeared to have seen the most use.

"There is a reason these blades appear to have been well used," Duke Morgan said. He unsheathed the long sword and extended the forty-seven inch double-edge blade into the sunlight of the near window. He held the perfectly forged folded steel to catch the light's reflection. "When I touched this, I knew this was as much a part of the man who wielded it as his own arm. It is of the highest quality forging I have ever found. Not even my forges could match the heat needed to fold this steel. And I have the best swordsmith in all of Gwynedd."

"I've seen this blade before," Richenda said. She stood and walked up to the window, her eyes full upon the hilt.

When she reached for it, Alaric pulled it back in warning. "No, I think not. The first impressions are the last of the man that wielded it. At that time, the man was white-haired and elderly, but he died wielding this sword in full and honorable defense of the King on the Schilling Ford fields. That slaughterhouse battle of a hundred years ago is all too vivid in the memories imprisoned here. I would not have you witness such an event."

"I am not as delicate as you would suppose, my lord," she said, her hand still waiting near the heft of the hilt. "But I think I know who that man may be, and I would like a chance to prove my theory."

"Those three days were enough to cause the most stoic of men to take pause. It earned the title of the 'Battle of Killingford' for a reason. I would not subject you to an event such as that. Let me see if I can find an image of the man in his younger years. It seems the blade was gifted to him by his father at his knighting, and he wielded it throughout his life." Alaric's eyes went unfocused as he shifted through the blade's imprisoned memories. He gently touched the fair cheek of his wife and let the images appear of a tall blond youth at his knighting. His head was bowed as this very blade, held in his father's hand, dubbed him on the steps of Gwynedd's throne room before the King. The youth finished his pledge and his vows standing proud, taking the proffered sword, and adding it to his white knight's belt. Richenda smiled. In youth, here stood no other than the man she had seen in her memory coins.

"Washburn Illiff Cynfyn, second son of Erwin Cynfyn, the 7th Earl of Lendour," she softly proclaimed.

"Studying my family history, I see," Alaric responded, turning his head quizzically at the table with the jeweled box and coins piled there.

Little Kelric woke with a soft fuss. Alaric turned from knight to father in an instant. He placed his treasured sword back in its scabbard on the table and then he lifted his son up to kiss the innocent face. "What a wonderful young man you are!" Alaric laughed, beaming at the faces the boy made. He bounced his son in his arms and watched as Kelric giggled and squealed with joy. Richenda grinned as the father dotingly loved on his son. After a few minutes he settled his son in his arms and let the boy pull at his fingers. The baby scrunched up his nose and brought his papa's fingers to his mouth giving them a taste. "I think he's hungry," Alaric surmised with a grin.

"Again? So soon? The men of Morgan have voracious appetites," Richenda lovingly stated, kissing the side of her husband's cheek as he graciously held their son. Alaric Morgan was the perfect man. She was often amazed at her turn of happiness in the last four years. Alaric's left arm encircled her waistline and he held her close. A blush warmed her face as she looked from son up to the father. Their eyes locked as they leaned together for a truly passionate kiss.

Kelric squealed happily, causing his parents to look down at him with a laugh. "Deryni children are too intuitive," Richenda stated with a smile.

"Then it is a very good thing we bring love and happiness into their world. I have no qualms about letting our children see that."

"I will certainly agree with you. Some things, however, are best kept for after they fall asleep," she said with a wink before taking Kelric back into her arms. "Let me satisfy this little one's appetite. And then perhaps—"

"My lady, are you teasing me?" Alaric asked, still holding her hand as she settled on the settee with Kelric.

"My lord, fear not, I am not a convent girl," Richenda replied, getting a quizzical look from her husband. "See the Cynfyn coins on the table? I think I have found something as treasured as your swords, but I have yet to review it in full. Perhaps you would care to scan the first three memories yourself, while I feed our newest Earl of Lendour. Then together we can read the last, and see if it tells the story that I think it will." She gestured at the items on the table, and then settled her baby in her arms.

Alaric gave her hand a curious squeeze. Then obligingly he walked back to the table, reviewing the items there. He sat in the plush chair and fingered the first coin with the stag of Cynfyn embossed on the face. He sensed the coin had a story that wanted sharing. With a whispered spell, he was engulfed in flames of the memories of a child….

Richenda finished giving her baby boy a Deryni Bath and then she swaddled him in fresh blankets and kissed his flushed rosy checks as she settled him back in the crib. He was a good eater, that one. Soon she would need to supplement his appetite with more solid food, but for now, he was growing strong on what she could provide. She loved children, and was already thinking she would love to give Alaric one or two more. With her other children downstairs distracted, perhaps there was time for the adults to play.

The duchess slipped up behind the duke at the table where she had left him. She wrapped her arms over his shoulders, and kissed his forehead. The three coins were set back on the far right side of the table, the last coin laid alone on the white velvet pouch. The duke was not looking at that coin, however. He held the silver Saint Camber medal that always could be found lying against his chest on a quality silver chain. He turned the medallion absently between his fingers, his eyes not quite focused on the portrait of the saint on the face of the brilliant trinket. Richenda moved her hands forward to enclose both his wrists. Without any resistance, she was with her husband shuffling through the in-depth imagery that was imprinted upon this ancient family heirloom.

Reading the impressions from items like the sword, which were owned by one person then locked away, was a straightforward linear progression. Most passionately owned items, especially items made from metals, retained emotional recordings of the hands that touched them. The stronger the emotion was, the clearer the imagery that became retained. This is how, with the help of spells, the memory coins could hold such detailed information.

The medallion in Alaric's hand was on quite a different magnitude from the sword or the coins. It had been passed down, hand to hand, through generations of family, for two hundred years. It had been consecrated at its making, venerated, and blessed by every hand that enclosed it. It had a strong magical vibration all unto itself. It had become a relic stronger than a shiral crystal. It allowed the owner to attune his focus, and clarify his magical purpose. Alaric's mind shuffled past thousands of emotional moments made by a dozen individuals' hands. There was no linear progression; all was encapsulated in a collage of events, some blurred one into another, some strong enough to stand alone, all indifferent to the sequence of time. To focus on one individual or one event was like looking for that one shiral crystal on a mile-long pebble beach.

"This medallion was passed down to me from my mother when I was but four." Alaric spoke abstractly aloud as much to his wife as himself. "It has seldom been apart from me in thirty years. I have used it as a focus point for every form of Magic— from Location spells, to Truth-Reading, to Healing. I have searched for my mother's impressions in this medallion, and I have searched for Saint Camber's visions, but I never stopped to consider all the other hands down the decades of time that have held this token in similar light." He stopped turning the medal and held it flat between thumb and forefinger. "The impressions on here are numerous, crowded and blurred, but I think I have found our elusive Jessa. She did not leave images as much as she has infused emotions into the silver. Joy and sadness, elation and fear are all here, but the strongest emotion is love— love of life and love of family. I don't know how I could have missed this before."

"So it is the same medallion?" the duchess asked. "Jessa's medallion is now yours, only separated by time?" Richenda placed her hand behind the round of silver and allowed Alaric to press it into her palm. Alaric helped her pinpoint the impressions she sought, and found one of love; a woman touching the medallion to the chest of a newborn baby, with a man's strong arms enfolding both mother and child in singular devotion.

"Can you see the father holding the mother and child? His emotions are captured but not his image," Richenda stated, searching through the impression. "It has to be Washburn; there could be no one else."

Alaric smiled up at his wife. "My love, you are a romantic. I would like to think it is Washburn as well, but there are numerous obstacles to that outcome. This man could as easily be Sir Artimus, or Sir Thomas, or some man she had not even yet met. You need more facts before you can jump to such conclusions."

"You may need facts," she said with a coy smile. "But as women in love, she and I share a similarity." Richenda slid around to Alaric's side and sat on the arm of his chair, leaning her head over his shoulder. "Perhaps if we read the last coin, you can have your proof, and I can see that love prevails."

In agreement, Alaric lifted the last coin from the table. He held it in his open hand and invited his love to interlock her fingers with his. Together, they enclosed the coin between their palms. A simple spell cast and the visions stored on the coin came to life in their minds.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 - WIC 9.19.985 4****th**** Coin **

_"Thank you, sweet angel of mine," _Washburn sent the mental note to the enchanting Deryni girl. It was in the early morning hours, the sky had lightened, but the sun had not yet lit the valley of the Lendour Knight's camp. The wagon of nuns pulled away from the camp, Sister Jessa sat near the back her eyes downcast until she heard his words. She looked up surprised. For a brief instant, his gaze met hers.

"What are you doing up?" Muir's voice called from behind him. "Come away from the entrance, you're in no condition to be up and about," his brother sternly stated. "Besides, if the physicians see you about, they will know something is amiss. You don't wish to compromise the girl's secret, do you?" Sir Washburn thus admonished turned away. With reluctance, he followed his brother's advice and return to the sick cot. Only three others—Arty, Dillon, and his squire— knew he had been healed.

"She is an amazing woman," the knight captain whispered.

"What's this?" his brother exclaimed. "I'll grant you that," Muir conceded after a thoughtful pause. "Jessa Keryell is pretty for a sister of the convent, and I'll admit that her being Deryni and Healer has some attraction. However, she is a member of the Church. Please tell me you noticed the habit in which she was attired?" Muir tilted his head at his younger brother with a teasing smile.

"Of course," Wash replied, heartening to the quip. "But surely you noticed the novice robes and the veil, not the coif and wimple of a nun."

The Earl shook his head in disbelief at his brother's tone. He recognized a hint of earnest intent under the jest. A look of concern replaced his earlier smile of relief. "It's been three years since your sweet Camilla died," Muir said the words with care, but still Wash ducked his head, feeling the pain of loss. "Maybe it is time for you to seek a second bride. My hope is that finally, after two years of battling Torenth, this war is decidedly finished. At least, let us pray the new King makes it so. I'm thinking that now is the time we should both start contemplating heirs to our family estate."

"Your wife is two months from giving you that already," Wash noted, hopeful for his brother's happiness. "I have not considered myself in that vein these last years. I did truly love Camilla," he said with a sigh. His gaze went to the two rings upon his hand: the white gold ruby ring from his father and the thin gold band from his wedding day. That day was nearly five years ago.

"I know that you did," Muir said, pulling up a stool and sitting down opposite his younger brother. "This maiden healer has saved you when I surely thought the worst would happen. I owe her the world for that gift. But if you wish to consider marrying again, it cannot be with her."

Wash looked up, taken back by the blunt statement. Muir continued on, knowing his words would hurt. "I spoke to the Reverend Mother last night. She believes Sister Jessa has a true vocation, which is a wonderful thing for a child who was orphaned from a pair of unmarried peasants. I am sorry. I have no desire to dash your ideals of the woman who just saved your life. But years ago, the castle guard who brought her to the convent said her parents were murdered selling stolen goods from an estate." He took a deep breath, feeling his brother's probe on his shields. "Can you handle this, if I show you?"

"You must. Otherwise, I will not believe such a tale."

"Very well." Muir leaned closer, wrapping his hand around Washburn's wrist. They fell into a familiar rapport. Muir shared a part of his conversation with the abbess the night before. She had told him of the day the Deryni girl had been brought to the convent, and everything the guardsman had said. The child had been found with a dead man and woman who carried stolen goods from a wealthy estate. The child's mother was with a man she was not married to, leaving the legitimacy of the child's birth in question. The orphaned girl had given her name as Jessa Keryell. Letters had been sent to the Keryell family, yet no one would claim her. In addition, the Keryell family was human, not a single Deryni in the family tree. Over the years, the girl herself had not enlightened the abbess further. "I'm sorry," Muir finally said aloud. "I know that is not a truth you wanted to hear."

Wash bowed his head sadly. "No, it is not." He lay back on the pillowed cot and stared at the canvas above his head. "I cannot see how such a giving, gentle mind can come of the background that you've told."

"Just be glad, as I am that she was here when she was, and that the convent has taken her in its fold. She will do well there."

Wash was beyond tired from the trauma he had endured. He could not understand that moment the day before, when he had opened his eyes, his pain suddenly gone. He had been sure his soul was passing from this earth. His heart had been touched by a presence; his eyes had opened to an unexplainable vision. He saw a vision of light in the form of a man leaning over him, whose eyes were softly grey, shinning with a countenance of knowledge. The worldly apparition had floated upward revealing the golden beauty Wash soon learned had the skills of healing. The vision had purposely joined their souls together in that moment accomplishing more than just the healing of his body. Something else had happened in that moment, something amazing.

Wash had spent the next sleepy hours wondering if the apparition in his vision had been the Angel of Death, but as he woke, fully healed and alive he realized it was not Death who had visited him, but the power of Life. So, which angel then did the ghostly figure represent. Washburn struggled to comprehend the truth. The more he revisited that moment in his mind, the more he realized he had seen a semblance of this man before. It had taken him all night to remember, but now he was certain he had seen his vision captured in a portrait within the pages of his mother's prayer book. The portrait had not been of an angel but of a saint, a Deryni saint known as Saint Camber.

The truth of history often was a precarious thing. Those in authority had deliberately skewed the facts of the high placed Deryni lord, who in his lifetime had instigated the overthrow of the horrific Torenthi domination of Gwynedd's crown. Washburn's mother, Lady Lillian, had stressed on her two sons the importance of remembering the Deryni men and women who had risked everything to save the kingdom from tyrants. Lord Camber was one man named for his heroic restoration as the defender of humans and Deryni alike. Upon his death, Camber had been canonized for his deeds. Nevertheless, human memories were short, it was easy for the non-Deryni hierarchy within the Church to redefine their power, and they condemned and discredited the Saint along with all Deryni for the Torenthi's previous abuse of power within the kingdom. Deryni memories, however, remained strong, and they remembered Saint Camber as their defender. Heard only through Deryni channels, there were whispered rumors of other spiritual sightings of the man once known as Camber MacRorie. The sightings had only seemed to serve the myth of the man. Was it possible there was truth in those sightings? He had not believed so before yesterday. Today he did not know. If it were true, then the immensity of it unbalanced Washburn's ecclesiastical ideals.

Wash could sense that his brother understood the distress of his own inner turmoil. As yet, neither man had spoken aloud what each had witnessed of the previous day's miracles. The strength of that experience was far more poignant than any angelic tale that the Church could offer. Although he was recovering, Washburn was still weak. Not only was his body fighting to quickly recover, but his mind was also struggling to understand his survival along with the emotions that a young woman stirred in his heart. Displaying his brotherly protection, Muir reached over and covered Wash's eyes with his palms. The earl switched the triggers he had set the day before and willed his younger brother to sleep. The Knight Captain did not fight the compulsion. He let his mind calm and his eyes grow heavy. The road back to Castle Cynfyn would be bad enough in a bouncing litter. If Muir forced him to sleep through the whole of it, then at least he would keep up the charade of the wounded knight for a little longer. As he dozed off, he realized how much he really did need the sleep to fully regain his lost energy.

* * *

WIC 11.4.985

Weeks passed, and the heat of early autumn ended. The drought succumbed at last to a torrent of heavy rains that quickly drowned the dry riverbeds of the upper Molling River in mad flash floods. A small village along its banks, at the foot of the Lendour Mountains, took heavy damage. Rushing water and blocking debris turned the village's edge into broken homes full of brush and mud. Washburn accompanied the earl to assess the damage. They had mustered a garrison of workers from Cynfyn and the nearby tenant estates. By mid-day, the men had begun rebuilding the broken levee at the river's edge. With steady work, the repair would be complete before the next storm arrived.

A castle messenger galloped up to the company of workers. No sooner had he dismounted than he handed a sealed parchment across to the Earl of Lendour. Muir read the missive twice before his shaking hand held it out for Washburn to read. Wash held his breath as he scanned through the message from Sir Thomas. It described how the Countess Melina had slipped on the wet stone steps outside the main hall. She had fallen some feet before those around her could stop her descent. The earl's wife had suffered a serious fracture of the ankle. The castle physician, Rubin, was away, causing Sir Thomas to send for the physician from the cathedral. He had arrived and was setting the ankle. Soon afterward, however, the countess began experiencing abdominal pains. Sir Thomas assured the earl that his wife was well cared for, but thought it best if he returned. Washburn felt his own anxiety as he heard his brother shout out orders, his voice distressed. Wash nearly missed the last words on the parchment explaining Sir Thomas's greatest concern.

"_Sir Artimus has taken it on himself to retrieve Sister Vivian and her companion from Saint Clair's Convent. I protested the need. The castle midwives seemed not overly concerned and the cathedral physician, Father Pernal is here. The convent women will likely arrive before you can be here yourself, so I am requesting that you be prepared to deal with this upon your return." _

What was Sir Thomas thinking? Why would he call Father Pernal?

"I'm returning to Cynfyn immediately," the earl shouted to the five knights in his company. "Sir Paulson. You're in charge here. I should think it would not take more than two days to rebuild the breach in the river's edge as we discussed. Lambert and Ronald, you're with Paulson. Dillon, you are with me. Wash?"

"With you, my lord," Wash instantly stated.

"If you don't wish to be around with the physician there, I will understand."

"Do not think for a moment that anyone could keep me from my duty to you and your family. I am beside you. You should never question that."

"Forgive me." Muir bowed his head. "Of course. I would be much distressed in the journey home without your presence. Come, we have miles of climbing road before us." With that, the three men gathered their belongings and summoned their horses. At the pace they set, they would reach Cynfyn by sunset.

They rode into the castle inner courtyard muddied and anxious. The horses sweated and puffed from the three-hour ride. Muir was off his grey in seconds, taking the stone steps up to the keep three at a time. He had bolted through the main doors before either of his knights had dismounted.

"Dillon, can you see to the animals? Ah, here come the grooms now," Sir Washburn said while dismounting. He handed his sorrel's reins, as well as the grey's, across to old Karl. "They have been overtaxed, Karl. Please see them rubbed down and cooled properly."

"Yes, my lord. I'll see to them. These are like me own children, you know."

"Good man." Washburn nodded. Then he, too, was anxious for news up in the castle and took the steps two at a time.

Washburn entered the earl's apartment on the third floor, interrupting the full disclosure Sir Thomas was relaying to Muir in the private solar. "…she reset my lady's ankle and have completed its healing," he said with a flinch at the last word. "It no longer gives the countess pain. Not so for her other pains. She fell on her left side, my lord. Her pains there have increased. Physician Pernal insisted she just needed rest, but the nuns from the convent state that she has gone into labor. Rather than rest, they have had her walking around to encourage the oncoming labor pains. The younger sister seems to believe the baby is distressed and should be born as soon as may be. I'm sorry my lord," Sir Thomas said with trepidation at the premature birth.

"She's three weeks before her time," the earl stated in shock. He had lost an infant before. It terrified him that he could lose his wife as well. "How can it be safe to have the baby so early?"

Sir Thomas sighed in dismay. "So I myself said. I was supporting the good father in this but the older nun echoed the younger sister's concerns. They spoke of things I did not understand; somehow, they won Physician Pernal over to their way of thinking. He has stepped aside and allowed the women to encourage the countess to deliver. I am sorry, my lord, but it is out of our hands." Sir Thomas seemed to take the full responsibility onto himself. Muir put his hand on Thomas's shoulder, releasing him of that responsibility. Without concern that he was a man invading the domain of women, Muir pushed on the inner door and rushed into his sleeping room.

As the door opened, a woman was heard giving forth a deep moan, followed by breathless puffing, and then a deep moan again. Wash followed behind Muir, but he stopped, frozen at the portal of the doorway. His chest constricted as his eyes beheld what men were not meant to witness. On a stool between the hearth and the bed sat the robed figure of the countess. Sister Jessa sat behind her bracing the countess as she leaned back. The healer's hands extended over the lady's belly, her eyes dilated with focus. A nun had taken the position as midwife. She sat before her ladyship near the floor, her hands holding the hem of the voluminous robe, and her steady voice telling the countess when to breathe.

The chambermaids turned toward the men in surprise. They scowled at the arrival of the castle lords and then purposely moved around the countess blocking her image from the door. This was not a place for men. Wash took a step back. Only his eyes followed his brother as the anxious lord blatantly ignored the stares of the women and strode around them all to grasp his wife's hand and sit on the bed at her side.

As Wash turned away from the scene, his eyes caught the figure of a black clad priest, who seemed forgotten and left to stand in the farthest corner of the sleeping room. The father's arms were folded in his sleeves and though his eyes were mostly downcast, Wash twice saw him look upward and stare intently at the women across the bed. No, not all the women, the priest stared at Jessa.

Anger flared behind the knight captain's eyes. Was this the Father from the Abbey, the one named Pernal? Wash did not know him by his looks but he had little doubt that it was the same priest. He stepped into the doorway bent on confronting the man.

"_No Wash! Not here, not now!"_ The hard focused words from Muir brought him up short.

Washburn was about to voice a word of defiance, just as the Lady Melina let forth a heart-wrenching yell. The priest was forgotten as all the attendants turned their focus toward the distressed noble lady.

"Don't push!" the nun called out. "Grab the earl's hand and squeeze tight, but don't push! Not yet."

The anguish in Lady Melina's cry caused the younger Lord Cynfyn to turn away tortured. All too clearly, the painful memories of his wife's death in childbirth came to the forefront of his mind. The woman he had learned to love and the son he had dreams of raising to manhood had both been stolen from this world. Hearing those same sounds all over again tore him up inside. Wash turned away from the door and then away from Sir Thomas who paced and mumbled responsibly in the center of the outer room floor. Wash could not watch that restless motion. He retreated to the far hearth, staring long and hard at the fire set within. For a time, the sounds of the woman in labor retreated to heavy breathing and soft moans.

All too soon, the strained voice of Sister Vivian could be heard through the open door. "My lady, it is time. On the next contraction, I want you to push. You can do this. Your husband is beside you, and a healer will control your pain. Your baby is coming. This is it—my lady, push!" Wash cringed as his brother's wife gave forth a huge yell. After a moment, all quieted except for the mother's whimpering cries.

The tension from the room forced Wash to race back to the open door. He saw what the new mother could not see. The Sister Jessa had come around to kneel beside Sister Vivian. She held the newborn in her arms; her head bowed over his small form. The Deryni healer was in full trance with a soft golden glow emanating from her hands. Washburn had to blink as his eyes focused on a faint shimmer of a ghostly being kneeling at her side. The newborn with a hint of blue about the lips lay unmoving in the healer's hands. The energy from the healer's fingers caressed the baby's chest, and instantly Lord Muir's son took his first breath. The intensity of the moment dissipated as the newborn's mouth, fingers, and toes warmed with a healthy shade of pink. The vision of the saint faded away as the baby boy cried lustily for the first time. At the sound, cheers of joy and relief echoed through the room.

At Washburn's side, Thomas stood frozen, staring wide-eyed at Jessa and the baby. Jessa smiled up at both knights, tears from the moment's stress on her own cheeks. At the corner of his vision, Washburn saw the priest step closer; his eyes were as wide as Sir Thomas's. After a brief hesitation, the priest uttered a prayer and crossed himself, and then quickly he departed the room passing very close to Wash. It took every ounce of resistance for the knight captain to not grab the man and question his motivation. This, however, was neither the place nor the time. He assured himself that the priest had fully left the apartment before he came back to the sleeping room to see Jessa place the newborn son in the arms of his awaiting mother. His heart wrenched, knowing what would have been if the healer had not been here. Once more, they owed this girl another life.

Sir Washburn wanted neither to leave in case he was needed, nor to intrude on his brother's privacy. There were still many goings and comings of maids in and out of the room. Melina was still in pain, and Jessa was seeing to her needs. Wash turned to watch Thomas give a distressed huff. The older knight could not handle the pressure within the room any longer. With a decisive turn, Sir Thomas left. Washburn watched him go, questioning his attitude. His musing was cut short as his own personal squire entered the solar carrying a fresh set of clothes in his arms.

Wash could always count on Robby to see to his needs. The young man had just turned fourteen. Washburn would have knighted him on the fields during this last campaign if the boy had been older. Robby had seen Washburn through the worst of this last year. The growing young man's dedications to his responsibilities and to Wash were unshakable. Washburn enjoyed training Robby in swordsmanship and jousting. The son of Baron Donneral was proving he could hold his own even amongst those peers who did get knighted this last year. Wash acknowledged the young man with a grateful smile. Taking his duties seriously, Robby exchanged Wash's muddied boots for kid-leather house shoes and removed his outerwear for a warm, fur-lined tunic emblazoned with Wash's personal coat of arms. The squire waved a servant over with a tray of warm food and a decanter of wine. Wash accepted the wine, saying a word of blessing for the newborn in the next room.

Taking a comfortable seat before the hearth, Washburn stretched his legs enjoying the bristling fire and the warmth. He smiled as he heard his nephew's soft cry. It was about time there was a new heir to the Cynfyn line. His mind, unedited, revisited the all too short romance he had enjoyed with Camille. The king had betrothed her to him; she was the third sister of the Duke of Claibourne from the north. They had not met before their wedding day. He was half expecting the girl to be like her brother, with his heavy highlander looks and mannerisms. Her gentleness had taken him back. She was not a beauty to behold; a little too square jawed, a little short of leg. He found, however, it was easy to lose himself within her dark eyes. It had taken them months to learn each other's ways and fall in love, but fall in love they did. It was a year before she announced to him she was with child. He thought he was the happiest man in the land. And so he was, for eight wonderful months. Then tragedy struck. He had lost her. How could he ever love again?

He dozed off in the cushioned chair before the hearth, and dreamed of what might have been with a loving wife and children on his knees. With the dream easing, a soft voice called his name, and gentle fingers caressed his hand. His eyes opened to a golden beauty standing before him, just as she had in his dreams. Had he really substituted this fair girl for the dark haired lady of his past? Her veil was gone, showing strands of wheaten locks escaping the blue ribbon that bound her hair. She was tall and refined with her figure enhanced by the firelight behind her. Not a girl, he corrected, but a woman grown. Her voice fell in sweet tones upon his ears.

"The earl and countess wish to present to you their son, your nephew. Will you step inside?"

Jessa Keryell bowed her head as he took her right hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand, not releasing the long fingers as he rose to stand before her. He did not move on as she urged him to. Instead, his left hand touched her chin and turned her face up to his. He stared into her shining grey eyes, marveling at the power hidden behind them.

"Once more I sense I am in your debt," Sir Washburn said. She cast her gaze up to his and held her breath. He felt the tendrils of her mind briefly touching his. Then ashamed, Jessa pulled her thoughts away, though she showed no sign of releasing herself from his touch. Unsure, he pulled her closer to see what she would do. She did not pull away. If anything, she leaned into his hand seeking the comfort of his strength. He fumbled for what to say, afraid he might scare her away. "Thank you for healing my brother's wife and his new son. I would not like to think of what might have happened if you had not been here. Twice now you have been a miracle for the house of Cynfyn."

She ducked her head, blushing from his praise. "Then you must thank Sir Artimus for racing to the convent and convincing the abbess to let me come. She had denied his request at first."

"Why would she refuse Artimus? Your gift was absolutely required."

She shook her head, not able to answer him. "I, too, am glad I was allowed to intervene. I have not healed since that fateful day when we first met. It pains me to see people suffer needlessly."

Washburn brushed a tear from her cheek and felt the healer's concern for others. It seemed that she felt alone in her concern. She lived in a religious house where the women were supposed to support one another. How could she be so alone? "I don't understand, the convent must be overjoyed to have a healer in their midst. Don't women in need enter your halls regularly? I should think you would be quite busy."

Jessa turned her back to him and stared into the fire. "I am Deryni, my lord. Others have begun to suspect my heritage. My duties are frequently in the cellars, working alone. I am only allowed to be with the others during prayer. At night, I am locked away in my cell. I have been told that it is for my own protection. At first I believed what the abbess told me, but I suspect I am being punished for this healing gift that I would share with others, if I were allowed."

"That's madness!" Washburn pulled her back to search through the pain in her eyes. "You saved my life; Thomas's and Ronald's too. And they punish you for that?" He pulled her into his embrace and felt the tears of shame fill her eyes. He held her for a long while, remembering that moment of oneness they had shared two months before. "You're not alone," he whispered brushing her tears away. He looked down into her eyes. In the next moment, he kissed her.

Surprising even himself, he half expected a slap across the face. Instead, to his amazement, she melted in his arms without resistance. They held their embrace, both experiencing the comfort of their closeness.

At last, Wash broke the silence. "Who are you? How did you come to such a place as Saint Clair?"

The healer gave a great sigh, and turned her face toward the fire, once more her mind lost in the flames. "It matters little," she whispered. "All that matters today is that the gift that I offer has seen your brother's wife through what few others survive, and that your nephew is strong despite the earliness of his birth."

"I owe you so much for this miracle of your healing touch."

"No, you owe me nothing." She looked back at him, honestly giving of herself. "I am a servant of the Church, and happily use the gift the Lord has passed down to me." She pulled away, straightened her back, remembering her place. She would then have turned to lead him back to where the newborn nephew lay with his parents, but Washburn's hand brushed her elbow, drawing her grey eyes back up into his blue ones.

"Tell me true, my lady. Is it truly your destiny to be a servant of the Church?" He took a deep breath, searching for a better understanding of the feeling she evoked in him. "I will not bother you further if it is a real vocation that you feel. But if they treat you so poorly, how can you wish to be their servant?"

"I—" She hesitated for a long moment at a loss to explain. Torn by her own mixed emotions, she finally looked up at him and softly said, "I believe my healing talent is a gift from the heavens. I cannot deny what is part of my soul, but I…."

"I suspected your vocation was true," he said with a great sigh. "It would explain why Saint Camber has graced his presence upon you."

She stopped and stared up at him, surprised. Her shields until this moment had been closed to him, but now they brushed up against his, questioning his words. "Saint Camber? Camberus? The name on my medallion?" She fingered the silver chain that lay against her neck and pulled the heavy medal from under her gown. "I am allowed to wear this, but only if I keep it hidden. The abbess will not tell me who Saint Camberus was or why I cannot find his description in the basilica."

Washburn took the outer edges of the silver medal between his fingers. Turning it slowly in his hand, he read the engraving along the rim. "_Sanctus Camberus,_ _libera nos ab omnibus malis._" He nodded his head, confirming in his mind what he had suspected before now. "Did you not know you wore the medal of the chapel of Saint Camber? There are very few of these left. Most were melted down when his name was stricken from the Church."

The novice stared between Washburn and the medallion for a long minute. "_Deliver us from every evil…_." she whispered. "I often wondered what was the 'evil'? The Church believes that Deryni are evil, but I could never reconcile that, as this token was highly cherished by my father, and by his father before that. This medallion is all that I have of my family."

Sir Washburn's left hand caressed her wrist. He invitingly dropped his shields, opening a link to share his knowledge. He showed her the history of the saint as it had been taught to him by his mother. He then shared with her, his own vision of the man of soft light as he saw him knelling beside her today, and before, when the same spirit rise between them that day he thought he would die. He no longer doubted the visions were that of Saint Camber.

She gasped aloud. "You saw him today? I was not sure if you did." Trusting this knight in a way she had never allowed before, Jessa deepened the rapport between them. She openly shared her own experiences of her heaven-sent angelic visitations. She considered his words and wondered if her healing angel truly was the Deryni Saint, Saint Camber. She had never put the name and the holy angel together. "Was Camber a healer?" she finally asked, always believing that he must have been so.

"I have never heard tell that he was," Wash answered uncertainly. "I will look into it and see what I can discover."

Rashly, Wash leaned into their mental sharing, hoping to learn more of Jessa's past. But suddenly she shied away. The link between them closed. Wash cursed himself for his own stupidity and apologized to the maiden, who whipped back tears of embarrassment. She gathered her wits and bravely stood tall. "Come, you have family waiting." She bade him toward the earl's private room. "They want to share their joy with you. It would please me most to witness this happiness of a caring family."

Willingly, knowing he could not learn more today, he let her lead him into the earl's chamber. On the bed wrapped in coverlets, and leaning into the shoulder of her husband, the lovely Melina held the little baby boy affectionately in her arms. He was bundled tight with a small red face, puffed cheeks, closed eyes, and a tuft of blond hair over the top of his head. He had the strong family chin. A Cynfyn indeed.

"We will name him Euan, heir to the Earldom of Lendour," Muir pronounced, beaming with pride.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 - WIC 11.6.985 4****th**** Coin **

"Are you certain these ledgers are correct?" Lord Washburn asked Lord Ohlin of Glascwm. "This cannot be the entire grain harvest for this year!" He pointed to the numbers of bushels on the accounting scroll and let the castle steward look over his shoulder.

"Yes, my lord, those are correct," said the old man who had been the hereditary steward for five decades. His face was grim.

Wash ignored the old man's attitude and continued his review of the ledgers. "I know that all of the eastern estate fields were burned by Torenth last spring, and it was too late to replant after the victory at Rengarth. But what of the west? Most certainly, the Donneral fields were planted; there should have been enough grain there to support Lendour through the winter. Yet there is no accounting of the harvest."

Lord Ohlin gave a heavy exhalation. He was doing a poor job of hiding his displeasure; that is, if he was trying to hide it at all. "Lord Muir is well aware of the King's tariff. He sanctioned it," Ohlin replied, his shoulders square, and his jaw tight. He pointed further back on the page where it indicated the entire harvest of Baron Donneral's estate had been granted to the crown. Ohlin stood up with his back straight, defying Lord Washburn to comment on that.

Wash managed to suppress his own irritation. Did Ohlin still hold a grudge after all these years? What had it been, fifteen years, at the least? What was the name he called Wash back then—a young ne'er-do-well? Honestly, Wash never thought he deserved the old man's disfavor. Certainly, there had been a few pranks played on the old steward by both of the young Cynfyn boys, for he was old even back then and easy to irritate. Lord Ohlin had charge of the whole castle, except for the boys. They fairly much had listened to no one but their sword masters and their father. Well, and Mama, of course.

Wash could barely restrain a recalcitrant grin when he recalled the one event that had sent Ohlin into a rage. He was age eleven and preparing to leave for Rhemuth the following day to begin his squiring within the royal household. He had a huge deerhound named Rexxar that he was forced to leave behind. The reddish-brown haired dog had chased something into the fields and had returned muddy from head to all four feet. Washburn could not leave his companion looking so unloved. It was Muir who suggested the bath spell. Wash would not have tried it without his older brother egging him on. The first little spray of water forming from thin air was not enough to clean the dog. Muir had him change a word and a simple sweep of the hands and whooshed. A torrent of water burst from the air near the ceiling and drenched the whole solarium, including, unfortunately, Lord Ohlin who was walking through the door with newly drafted contracts for the earl to review. The contracts did not survive and the steward was livid. Washburn left the next morning unable to win back Ohlin's trust. After many attempts at contrition, that blemish still marred their working relationship.

Washburn stifled his smile with a cough and tried to explain to the steward in a more open tone. "Muir is a newly made father. He desires to take time away from his other duties to spend more time with his wife and newborn son. You wouldn't begrudge him that, now would you?" he asked. He then continued, as the steward could make no further argument on that point. "Muir appointed me this task. There are problems that need to be addressed and decisions that need to be made. Are you going to wait a week for Muir, or are you going to let me resolve the issues?" Wash tapped the ledger, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm. He waited for the steward's response.

"Very well," the steward said, unable to further defy his feudal lord's brother. He handed over three letters with a different ducal seal affixed at the bottom to each. "Here are the letters that have arrived in response to the earl's inquiries of purchasing additional grain. These are from the Duchies of Carthmoor, Corwyn, and Claibourne. All are feeling the shortage this year, and each has offered to supply our needs, but all with a price attached. I need Lord Muir to decide if we should accept any of these offers or turn to the Duchy of Haldane for our needs."

Washburn sat back with all three correspondences and read each in full. The dukes of the realm were not exactly generous men. Duke Angus of Claibourne was young, and still held a grudge over the death of his sister, Wash's beloved, deceased wife. His price for grain was equal to that of the sweet lady's dowry. Wash could understand the duke's animosity, but the price was far too great. Duke Jashan of Carthmoor was Lendour's closest neighbor and should have had the largest harvest of the year, but their price too was exorbitant; evidently, Duke Jashan thought he could profit from Lendour's shortage. The last letter, from Duke Jernian of Corwyn, offered the most reasonable value for his goods. The trouble was in the travel from Corwyn to Lendour due to the lateness of the season. The east roads were already flooded, leaving only the south road through Carthmoor open. He would have to send a contingent of guards to protect the goods while traveling through the open low lands.

Wash placed all three letters back on the desktop. He would have to reply to each in turn, turning down the more exorbitant offers as diplomatically as possible. "We can't allow our people to starve come the middle of winter," Washburn declared, as he pushed two letters aside. "I will not willingly deplete our treasury paying the prices of Claibourne or Carthmoor. Corwyn has much better quality goods than the others, at any rate. I think we can deal directly with Duke Jernian and his Chancellor, Russell of Tendal. The earl and the duke were strong collaborators during the war. Let's hope we can find an amiable deal before the winter closes the Cynfyn roads."

The decision made, Sir Washburn put pen to ink and drafted letters to each of the dukes of Gwynedd who had offered aid. He was pleased at Lord Ohlin's surprised and appreciative look as he reviewed each letter. It was not easy to dismiss Washburn's expertise gained from leading an army of 3,500 men, with duties that required more than just war strategies and fighting. He was ranked Captain and held multiple duties very similar to that of the stewards: maintaining discipline, ordering supplies, repairing equipment, and appropriating food, tents, and bedding, all within the meager funds he was allowed. He was well trained in ledgers, accounting, and correspondences. When one was out in the field, failure meant death, either by starving, freezing, or losing to the enemy. There was no room for mistakes or coming up short in the things his men truly needed. Currently, Lendour needed grain to survive the winter. This is why Muir had asked Wash to review the accountings for him.

Ohlin left the earl's office with the drafts looking far more pleased than when Wash had first informed the steward he would be performing Muir's duties. At least he was making some points with the castle steward.

Feeling satisfied, the Knight Captain left the confines of the earl's office and went in search of friendlier faces down in the training yards. He had not yet crossed the main staging room when his glance spied Father Pernal's black cassock and tonsured brown hair exiting the hall, heading toward the kitchens. He stared after the man, aching for a direct confrontation to discern the priest's true motivations. His brother had made concessions for the priest, stating the physician's presence had been valuable after his wife's fall. Still, Washburn had little reason to trust the man.

His feet started toward the kitchen when he came up short, suddenly breathless. The novice Jessa exited the same hall the priest had just entered. Her hands held before her a tray containing jars and a pitcher of steaming water. The white veil covered her silken hair and her glance was on her path through the throng of people before her. Feeling his presence in the room, she looked up, and her cheeks blossomed to a warm shade of pink. Her lips smiled shyly even as she bowed her head and curtsied her greeting from across the room. She stood quietly, waiting for his approach. Without conscious thought, he was halfway across the room to speak with her.

Sir Artimus intercepted him before he could reach his destination. "Wash, I've been looking for you half the day." Arty stepped before his captain, blocking Washburn's sight of the woman near the back of the room. Only then did Arty realize his mistake. He stepped back following Washburn's gaze to the departing figure in the cream and blue gown crossing the floor to the main stairs. Arty could not resist a knowing smile, and waited for the maiden to be out of sight before clearing his throat to get his commander's attention back.

Washburn finally turned to his friend. "Artimus, I thought you were supposed to escort the sisters back to the convent this morning?"

"Lady Melina still requires the services that the younger of those two ladies can provide. Lord Muir requested that she stay on. I did intend to escort Sister Vivian back this morning; however, Sir Thomas happily volunteered his services. It seems Thomas has made a couple of jaunts back and forth to the abbey of late."

"What? Why is that?" Washburn asked, bringing his full attention back to his friend. For the first time, he noted his squire was in Arty's company.

Artimus merely shrugged his shoulders without concern. "Robby and I were heading to the practice grounds. Care to join us?"

Washburn smiled at that. "Indeed, this I will have to see. Artimus, don't be surprised if this young man puts a sweat on your brow. I taught him a trick or two that just may challenge you."

"Hm." Artimus looked from Wash to his squire. "Your mentor is boasting of your prowess. Are you prepared to make good on that boast?"

"I am," said the fourteen year old, who had grown a foot taller in the last year. He looked over at Lord Washburn, prepared to do his best.

"Very well. Five bouts with the blade on the field," Arty challenged. "When you lose, Washburn will take us both to Chambery Alehouse in town. I understand the new ales are properly aged and ready for tapping."

"I'll take that deal," Washburn said for young man. "Arty, I think you better have your purse about you, for there is a possibility that you may be paying the brewer." Both men shook on it, leaving Robby a bit nervous. But the camaraderie between them was a pleasant jest.

In the end, Washburn paid for the night's ale, but not before Robby had put the thirty-two year old lieutenant through a work out. All three were quite happy by the end of the day.

In the following days, heavy rain came again, forcing everyone indoors and near to the hearths. Between the wars, floods, and the cost of feeding his people, this was proving to be a costly year on the earldom's ledgers. Sir Washburn prayed the new king would understand come spring taxes, but after the tariffs on the grain stores, he was sure the worst was yet to come. Prince Cluim had been the General of King Jasher's army before his Majesty was killed in battle earlier this year. In early September the noble Prince Cluim was crowned King in the city of Valoret while en route to his capital of Rhemuth. Both Muir and Washburn had ridden to the coronation before returning to Rengarth the next week to bring the Lendour armies home.

The rumors coming out of Rhemuth suggested that the new king was interested in securing the peace for his people. This was good news for the battle-weary east. Even peace, however, could become quite costly, especially in the beginning when rebuilding was necessary. Wash knew that Lendour had the funds to survive a costly year like this one. Nonetheless, come spring, the demands from the king would likely diminish the treasury close to its emptying.

He was glad Muir was a better politician than he was. The earl, with his greater persuasive skills, would be much better at dealing with the royal decrees when they came. Muir, on the flip of that coin, did not have the patience for numbers and relied heavily on Ohlin to keep the ledgers in order. Wash's study of the accounting books were proving Ohlin's age was starting to show. There were no blatant mistakes, but he was starting to see where others were taking advantage of the old man. Goods were being charged at greater than their value, and small squanderings of funds seemed to be rampant among the vassals and house staff. If they were going to stay solvent through the next year, it was time to tighten the purse strings. His people had to stop siphoning off funds for themselves. Wash firmly believed in rewarding loyalty and hard work; it was his trademark, one that earned him the love of his men. He had to show his people that there were more honorable ways then fraudulence to earn an extra coin.

On the sixth day after Euan's birth, the rain had stopped and the clouds parted, admitting light through the office windows. Not that Sir Washburn had noticed. He had compiled a nice short list of recurring events that he questioned. He was reviewing the infractions with Ohlin. Wash had to smile at the old steward's bristling under such scrutiny of his work, but Wash neither blamed nor condemned Ohlin for the errors, he simply intended to root out the cause and stop future occurrences. They were making headway when they came across a series of entries that had greatly puzzled the Knight Captain. As far back as Wash had reviewed, there had been a biannual payment of substantial funds to the Convent of Saint Clair. The obligation of payment was signed with the earl's own signature and therefore could not be ill-gotten gains as the other over-payments had been.

When Wash questioned the amounts, Ohlin was quick to protect the transactions. "That you let be, young son. That has naught to do with theft."

"Ohlin, that is a very large sum," Wash said, his finger tapping the amount on the ledger. "How long have we been supporting the convent? The yearly sum of this alone would pay for our grain shortage."

"The practice began forty years ago, when your uncle was earl. In all that time, only one tithe has been missed, about eight years ago I believe it was. Then after, we have given double what the original donation had been."

"Why, isn't the convent self-sufficient? What does the money go toward?"

"That you will need to ask the earl. I have naught to do with it," Ohlin said, hastily gathering up his scrolls. "If we are done here my lord, I have dealings to attend to."

Wash dismissed the old man, wondering what he was hiding. If he asked Muir, would he get a straight answer, or would the earl be just as evasive? Was it better to leave this unaddressed? No! This required an answer, something was wrong about the series of transactions. If he could not ask, he would research what the ledgers hid.

Ohlin had left him the earl's keys to the office library at the back of the room. Carrying a brass lamp, he sorted through the keys until he found the right one for the thick oak door. The room was dark with the heavy scent of cedar. There were no other openings save this one door. Rows of shelves as tall as the ceiling made multiple small alcoves on the east wall. A large walnut desk was centered in the west half of the room; charts, books, and scrolls littered its top.

Wash smiled. Muir could never put anything away. Obviously, Ohlin was getting too frail to keep up with his impetuous earl. Rather than find a new steward, Wash determined it was time he took over the job. The position was generally hereditary. Sadly, Ohlin had lost his son long ago, leaving no one to replace him in retirement. It would kill the old man if he were to be replaced by some upstart now. Better for Wash to relieve him, one responsibility at a time, making him think the title-less knight had nothing else to do. Perhaps later, once the man had passed on, Wash would ask Muir to appoint a new steward.

Washburn searched for the ledgers from his father's time. Specifically he was looking for eight years ago. What had happened to cause the missed tithe, and why was it doubled thereafter? He opened the large tome of 977, finding both the spring and the autumn tithed funds equal to the current payment. He went back to the shelves and pulled out the autumn ledgers of 976. Here on the day of Saint Matthew, the autumn equinox, he found the marking for half the current amount crossed off and unsigned. That same amount of money, instead, was signed off in the next lines, as paying toward the repair of the west gate barbican. His hands traced a path downwards along the page from one account entry to the next. It was a full fortnight later where he found a new entry of payment to the Convent of Saint Clair. The funds listed were for twice the original amount with an additional signing over of twenty acres of land. Rather than solving this dilemma, more questions were left unanswered. There was nothing in the ledgers that would further explain the incident.

During the years in question, Washburn had been fully caught up in the royal court of Rhemuth. These were the years of his squiring to the king. While Muir had not been at liberty to squire at court, Washburn was chosen to represent the Cynfyn name in fealty and loyalty to the House of Haldane. His prowess with the sword and horsemanship had won him special honors. His personal service to the aging King Uthyr was a mark of pride for his father. Washburn was also charged with a more secretive double responsibility. Set forward to him by his father, he was to win the good graces of the court as one of the few high-ranking Deryni families left in Gwynedd. Squire Washburn Cynfyn succeeded in earning the respect of those who ranked highest in the kingdom. His responsibilities fully occupied his time, giving him no free moment to learn of events from home.

Motivated by curiosity, Wash thumbed through several more documents of the times. He found nothing further to answer the questions the ledgers had elicited. He gave up. He placed back on the shelves what he had touched, and left the inner room as he had found it. In deep thought, he strode to the window in the main office and stared out at the afternoon.

It was the first time today that he realized how the sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky. The brightness highlighted the walls of the castle, striking richness to the gardens below. The trees in the fullness of autumn glistened in the warm colors of orange and red. All except for the great oak in the garden's very center. The ancient tree would hold its tough green leaves throughout the harshest of winters. The stories were told that the oak was old before the castle walls had been built up around its thick, twisting trunk. As children, they had climbed it to its highest branches, which were level with this third floor window.

A flash of white moving about the autumn colored trees caught the knight's eye. The day looked pleasant enough while standing at the windowsill, but certainly, it was not warm enough to wander out of doors. With a focused eye, the white veil became discernible over a cream and blue colored habit of Saint Clair's convent.

A faint smile passed his lips. Only one person remained in the castle who would be attired so. For days now, she and he had passed each other, often at a distance. A few times they had managed nearness, but they had never been free of accompaniment, not enough to talk privately. Once their hands had touched, a brief sharing had caressed both their minds. Unfortunately, others stood close, those eyes watching for just such an indiscretion. Washburn was not going to give them fodder for their gossip. It was bad enough that rumors were already traveling about the castle halls. Best not to give the rumors any substance, unless of course he actually intended to act upon them. With the rain ending and Melina's health improved, the Healer's aid was no longer necessary. Jessa would have to return to the convent, unless he gave her reason to stay.

Washburn gathered his courage and headed out toward the back narrow spiral stairs. It would not do if others delayed him and he lost sight of his quarry. He successfully negotiated the servants' entrance with only a few questioning gazes. He reached the inner garden and maneuvered around the paths to where he had seen the Healer moments before. She was not there. He looked around, mumbling a small swear word; he had missed her after all. He turned and caught a glimpse of movement through the autumn foliage. He moved forward and a splash of white shone brightly below the lowest oak branches, well hidden from the windows overlooking the garden. Jessa sat on a low stone wall. She balanced a large tome on her knees and was reading. Not so intently anymore, since now she felt his presence near.

She looked up with an inviting smile that warmed his heart. If Deryni women had special magic to entrap men, then so it was that he was caught. He could not have taken his eyes off her if the world were collapsing under his feet. He did not know how he came to be sitting beside her, but there he was, tongue-tied for the first time in his life. She nervously stayed seated quite close to him, waiting for him to speak.

"Are they treating your well?" he asked quietly.

"Indeed my lord, yes, your house has treated me quite well." She steadied her nerves as she ventured to ask, expecting only the congenial answer, "And you, my lord, are you doing well?"

He surprised her with his reply. "Not well at all, my lady."

Her eyes flashed up to his; an "Oh" escaped her lips. Her hand grasped his right hand and a surge of concern brushed his mind. "Are you in pain, my lord?"

He smiled at her attentive concern. "Yes... No, no, physically I am in great health. I assure you, I would not be so if we had never met."

Jessa searched his features and then bowed her head. "My lord… I would not wish you any pain. I deeply regret that day…." Her hand tightened over his. "I should have shown more courage. I should have completed your healing at my first touch. Even in the presents of the monsignors of Saint Foillan, I should have healed you completely. Oh, my lord…you nearly died because I ran away. I—."

"My lady, no! That guilt is not yours. My Lord Muir even wishes he had stood up against the priests far earlier in the day than he did. No one guessed the treachery they intended. That you were there at my greatest need, twice… I owe you my life…" His hands turned over, entwining his fingers with hers. "There was a moment…" He fell silent, unable to form the words. With regard, he gazed into her pearl-blue eyes. Delicately, his thoughts brushed up against her shields.

"Yes there was…." Jessa shyly blushed. "I will remember that moment for all of my days." She let her shields slip away. For all his strength, he was gentle in his touch. A deep fire surged through her core. She pulled back from this new sensation, attempting to hide her embarrassment. "My lord, I have made vows that I…." Her words stumbled to a stop with regret.

"I see," he said with a sigh. He made no further advance, his shoulders sloped a little, and his eyes fell back to their still clasped hands. He held her hand tighter as he restructured his resolve. "All this last week, it has bothered me to hear how you have been treated by the convent. You are special and should be respected for your gift. I don't want you to return to Saint Clair. Please say you'll stay with our chapel here in the castle until we can find a way to transfer you to a better place. My brother knows Bishop Michael of the Cynfyn Cathedral; perhaps a letter to the bishop requesting a transfer will move you to a place where your gifts will be respected. I love you too much to abandon you to the ways of the convent."

"You lo…." She hung on the word, unable to repeat it. A wistful light brightened her eyes, but then she looked back at the book in her lap. "As much as I may not wish to return, the Abbess is demanding it of me. In her letter, she has scolded me for not returning when Sister Vivian did. She has reminded me of my duties and loyalties to the convent. In this, I fear, I have no recourse but to obey."

Washburn studied her face and saw only sadness. When she released his hand, he took it back, wrapping both of his hands around her palm, and caressing the flaw of her left fingers. "How is it that you have been there nine years and not yet taken your full vows? Is it that you question your vocation?"

"It is twelve years, my lord; I was six when I was taken to Saint Clair. I am now eighteen. Every girl there is encouraged to join the holy orders at fourteen, but as you know, I am Deryni, and Deryni are not allowed to take their vows."

"That is not true," he said, wondering where that idea had come from. "Many Deryni women have turned to the Church for salvation and protection. I have an aunt who has been a vowed nun for many decades now." Washburn saw surprise in her face. "Don't go back there, I beg of you. If your vocation were not true, I would get down on my knees and ask for your hand in marriage. However, how can I compete with God? You are his, but I will see you in a better place than you have been."

Jessa's mouth opened and her eyes held his. "I— I— oh—my lord!" She squeezed his hand to stop his next words. "My vocation is not true, not in the sense the Church would wish it. I have girlish hopes and dreams that are an embarrassment to the ways of the convent. My true desire is to help others, to be a Healer as my father was a Healer. I thought my gift could only be used within the purview of the Church, but my eyes have been opened. I have been a part of the earl's house for this last week and I see another way that I did not know existed." She opened her shields, this time allowing him a brief glimpse of motherly joy between the countess and her baby. She longed for such feelings.

"I have seen cruelty and intolerance from the priests I once thought to be above such actions," she whispered with brief emotions of fear, which she quickly subdued. "If I were not bound by vows I took in ignorance, I would… but I am bound by them." Tears of entrapment glistened in her eyes, her dreams being pushed away. Washburn's face, however, filled with hope at her words.

"I don't want to return," Jessa continued to say, "but how can I deny the vows I have taken? The Reverend Mother will not give me dispensation from them, and if I go to the bishop, I fear that he will discover I am Deryni. I know what the Church does to Deryni not protected by the crown," Jessa stated with a deeply ingrained fear.

Washburn finally grasped her reasoned reluctance and gained courage from the understanding. "My lady, Bishop Michael is a much more tolerant man than the clergy of Saint Foillan. If it is truly your wish to be free of your vows, then it can be done." When hope flared in her eyes, Washburn sat up straighter. "I— have an offer that I want you to consider. In light of what you have just told me, is it possible that you could love a man such as me? I have loved you since the moment I awoke from your gift. When our minds touch, I feel a oneness, a belonging. Is it at all possible that you share these feelings?"

Jessa stared at him; true tears suddenly streamed down her cheeks. "Yes… Oh yes…" she replied, afraid to say more.

Sir Washburn knelt down beside her and held both of her hands. "Jessa Keryell, would you forgo the veil for me? Would you accept my ring and be my wife?" He pulled two rings off his finger. The small gold one, he touched to his lips then placed in his pouch. The silvery-gold band with its faceted ruby, he presented to her as a promise of his devotion. "I will go to the earl and to the king, if I must, for their consent. With this ring, I give promise of my devotion. I will gain your hand, and see you beside me at the altar. Will you marry me?"

She held her breath, astonished by the noble knight before her. She looked down at him, and his eyes spoke the truth of his love. "Yes, my lord, yes! Forever, I am yours." Barely believing that a man such as he could love her.

The black knight with the brilliant blue eyes gently brushed her cheek. His fingers ran back through her hair, dislodging her veil and the comb that held her hair back. With a blush on her face, she felt the veil fall away. Her golden strands came lose and cascaded over her shoulders and across her cheek. He smiled as his hand came forward to brush the waves aside. That smile dissolved all her resistances. Suddenly, his lips were touching hers and his mind was encircling her with warmth. Without conscious thought, they kissed with an impassioned surge of light and energy.

When their kiss ended, their embrace did not; they held each other close for an endless time. Finally, she whispered, "I was told that my feelings for you were but mere fantasy. That it was an impossibility that you could ever return those emotions." Her eyes stung with her inner joy. "My lord, you know I am an orphan? I know of the responsibilities required of your position. I am not certain that such consent can be gained."

He momentarily shied from the question of her parentage. "What I care about is you, who you are, not your lineage. I will persuade others to see you as I do. We will make this happen; it will be all right."

They held each other close in the mid-afternoon warmth of the old garden, both sharing dreams of a new future. They both dreamed of children and a close family full of caring and support. Jessa had settled under his arm, wistfully happy. "No matter what the future holds, will you make me a promise? Will you allow me to learn more of Healing? Will you teach me what it is to be Deryni? I desire to learn my heritage."

"Yes, my love, I will teach you our heritage in the privacy of closed windows and warded doors. It is a very dangerous world to be what we are. To even mention such a thing out in the open, where there might be prying ears and eyes, is not wise."

"But you and your brother are known to be such, as is Melina and others of your court?"

"Aye, and we live high in these mountains away from the main influence of Gwynedd. We are protected, not only by the king's hand, but by these thick walls as well. Outside, we never flaunt our knowledge. You must forever be on your guard to protect yourself and keep your secret close. It is very important that you understand this. Such as the book you are reading now, it would be wise to only read it in the strictest of privacy."

"It is only on Healing," she said while closing the book and running a hand over its old cover.

"And Healing is a Deryni trait; you must be always on your guard about such things. Until we can be legally married, you will have to be doubly careful about this." Embarrassed, she moved her long left sleeve to cover the title.

Wash smiled. "That's better," he said, pulling her close to his chest once more. Easily she fell into him, resting her head where he could smell the flower scent of her hair.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11- WIC 11.10.985 4****th**** Coin **

"You cannot marry her!" Muir stated authoritatively.

It was an hour later, in the solar of the earl's apartment. The current head of the family sat in one of the two cushioned chairs before the hearth; the same chair one week before had seen Wash kiss the woman of his affection. The earl's younger brother, having just confided his intentions for the eighteen-year-old healer, clenched his fists and stared back at Muir, his sense of duty at war with his heart. In defiance, he opened his palms on the chair arms and thrust himself out of the red velvet seat. He paced to the fireplace, turning his gaze into the burning flames.

"The lady in question is Deryni and Healer, a quality so rare in these times that there should be no rebuke to her lineage," the Knight Captain stated.

"She is orphaned, and her parents were a pair of thieving miscreants," Muir spoke harshly. He had to make his brother see the impossibility of it and turn to reason. "Wash, listen to me! Even if those two weren't her parents, everyone will say that they were, or worse that she is base born of some all too lecherous Deryni. Without proof that she is from legitimate nobility, the king, and more importantly the council, will never approve this match."

"Why?" Wash spun around to stare at his brother. "You now have an heir of your own blood. I am no longer the first in line to inherit the earldom. Of which I am quite glad. I should think the King and the council would want the talent of Healing to pass down in a lineage that they could ultimately control. Is it not more important whom she is, than where she comes from? The waste would be to let that talent disappear with the girl's marriage to the Church." Washburn was desperate to plead his case. "Muir, she does not want to go back to the convent. At the very least, I would ask you to grant her a position in your household. Will you deny her that as well?"

"Washburn Cynfyn, the situation as it stands is impossible. She belongs to the convent. Reverend Mother Phyla Mary is insisting on her return," Muir stated, as he sat forward in his chair, and then almost flippantly added. "What am I to tell the abbess? That you plan to set this innocent maiden up as your mistress; that you intend a passel of bastard children around your feet? Is this how you intend to treat the woman of your desires? There is no chance of gaining consent for marriage. You've known that for weeks, why do you pursue the matter?"

Washburn was struck like a knife in his heart at his liege lord's words. He paced the floor for several minutes, anger threatening to overflow his shields. With an intense whisper he finally stated, "She is nobler than that. I know it in my heart. Would the essence of Saint Camber appear to her if she were as you say, base born?"

Washburn's words instantly mollified his brother's callous conviction. Muir softened his features, leaned back in the chair, and took a steadying deep breath. "I know… I do not understand it either. I can sense her nobility as well as you can. However, I have to ask you, do you think you can protect her well enough from the ambitions of the king or the council? They will devour her in their greed. The moment you bring to light her talents, she will no more be yours to marry than she is now. The king will want to take her as his own mistress, as he has already attempted with other Deryni blood. Fortunately, that girl has proven barren. As for the council? Heaven knows what they would try to do with a Healer at their fingertips. Don't you think I know how they think? Wash, you must see. This is about her protection as much as it is about the protection of our family name. Neither you nor I have the power to stop the inevitable if the truth comes out. If you love her, you will protect her by sending her back to where her secrets will remain safe. Today the afternoon grows short, but tomorrow, in the morning, you must see her safely returned to the convent."

There was no challenging Muir's stance in this matter. He had made his final decision and would hear no further discussion. To push any further would lead to disaster on the younger brother's part. Washburn had nothing but his reputation to stand on, and that could be destroyed in an instant by a misplaced word. He excused himself from the head of his house before that utterance occurred.

In the restlessness of the setting sun, Wash released the squires from their attendance in his personal rooms, and bolted the door as they left. For an hour, he paced the floor wearing low the threads of the decorated carpet beneath his boots. At first, his attempts were to find peace with his brother's decision. Lust for one woman could be quelled easily by the attentions of another. The mere thought was distasteful; it was much more than lust that attracted him to this particular young woman. His heart had splintered at the death of his wife. If he too had died, he would have found her in the afterlife and been at peace. Instead his splintered heart had been remade with a saint's visitation and a Healer's touch. That healing had exposed two minds and two souls, bonding each together to form one whole. If forced to break that bond, could his heart survive a second shattering?

He toyed with the idea that all he need do was petition a priest to marry them. Once married before God, none could deny them. He laughed at his own naiveness. If he was low born, with enough funds, he could donate money to the Church to have his desired marriage service performed. But in his position, without consent, the funds required for such an act would bankrupt the earldom. Even then, without royal consent, the King could very well take the marriage as a personal affront to his authority. He held the right to banish the couple from his land, or worse, have the new wife executed, and then have the noble thrown in the dungeon for breaking vows with the crown. That was the power of the King of Gwynedd over his lords; there was very little they could dare without his blessing. To get that blessing required a means of political advancement in some way. A wife of Lendour had to be legitimate, of noble birth, who would tie his house to another's with future incomes and powers. As a second son, with even a slight chance that inheritance would fall in his path, these restrictions applied.

It all seemed so hopeless. He was acting the fool, like a teenage boy on his first crush. He was not a boy. Those years were long past. He was a man. A man respected by his peers. A man sought after by ladies in the realm. At any time, he could have any one of them. How easy it would be to just do as his brother implied, win the woman over, set her aside as his mistress, and be done with these boyish feelings.

He shook himself from that reverie; there had to be a better answer than that. For his honor and for hers, without marriage, he should not ask Jessa to be his. He should let her forever return to the convent before he could mar her propriety.

Now his heart ached even more.

Absently he found himself standing before the shelf of old volumes on his left hand wall. Looking up, he knew why his hand rested on the particular spot that it did. When it came to the ways of women, his mother had been well versed. Here he kept her prayer book with a small ivory carving of her face. His mother had been beautiful in her day, a kind person caring of more than just her family. Her bright smile faded five years ago, four months after his father's death. Everyone said it was from heartbreak, but Wash knew she had been sick for the entire year before, hiding it until her husband could not see her breakdown. Her last act was asking the King to marry the Duke's sister to her second son. It took Wash a long time to understand his mother's love in that request.

In a fit of melancholy, his hand brushed the dust off the prayer book as he brought if off the shelf. He remembered then that there was an image in the book which he had thought to look up weeks before. He paced to the candlelit table and sat at the chair, leafing through the pages in search of one portrait. Wash found several letters lying open mixed amongst the pages. He left them there for another time. His mind was set on one image; he had seen it here before. When he found it, his heart skipped a beat. In the top half of the page was an inked portrait of a man's face surrounded by a dark cowl, with light-colored, wide, distinguished eyes, a square chin and defined features. There was no doubt in Washburn's mind that this was the same image that twice now he had seen in spiritual form.

He sat back and thought of the girl that shared this vision. Just her image brought a longing to his heart. He took a breath and calmed his pulse. She was beyond his reach. She was too lowly born for him to consider for marriage and too well protected by the Church for him to treat like a servant. He failed at pushing her from his mind. Why was it then that the face in the portrait, the surreal image of Saint Camber, had seemed to join their two souls together as one?

With an exasperated sigh, he closed the book. A loose letter at the portrait's page slipped from the book as he closed it. He picked the single half sheet of parchment off the floor and began to place it absently back in the prayer book, when he read the opening date: Michaelmas 29.9.976. The parchment was crumpled and water-stained. Curious, he lifted the letter to the candle light.

_Dearest Lillian,_

_I have been allowed to write you this once. I beg of you to plead our case before my brother, the Lord Lendour. My last two letters to him have gone unanswered. We are eight in total. One is but a child of high nobility with long sought after qualities. The threat is real. We are told there are but four days remaining for reconciliation. We have been locked within our cells and have been informed to make our final atonement for our sins and the sins of our fathers. If payment is not met, then we are to be turn over to the Abbot two at a time. His pyres are always prepared for those of our blood who are unfortunate enough to pass within his domain._

_Only your husband can save us._

_Sister Meris _

Sir Washburn Cynfyn stared at the signature. Then reviewed the letter again. Lillian was his mother, her husband Erwin, Lord of Lendour was his father. His father was brother to only one sister, his Aunt Merissa Cynfyn. Heaven help her, Sister Meris was his aunt. How was it that she was hostage, and held for ransom? He could remember little about his aunt. She had been made widow in her early years, and it was said she turned to the Church for solace. Now that he thought of it, he could not recall anyone talking about his aunt since he was a youth. _Eight persons to be turned over to the Abbot, two at a time? If payment was not met? _He studied the date from this letter and compared it to his memory of the ledger's dates; they matched too closely. The payment to the convent in the ledgers had been signed for on the third day of November in the Year of Our Lord 976, four days after the date of this letter. My God, was this the reason for the doubling of the tithe? Did the payment make the deadline? Astonished, Wash stared at the letter. The lives of eight women, held in balance, for the cost of the castle's front gate repairs.

In war and battles, there were many lives, both friendly and enemy, that the Knight Captain ultimately held in his responsibilities. He was a warrior and good at what he did. He was also a strategist and never willingly wasted life unnecessarily. Had his father called the Convent's bluff and lost the game? How many lives had been lost in that game? Had his aunt been a casualty? If so, then why was the payment still being made? Who else would be worth such a ransom to the Earl of Lendour? "_A child of high nobility with long sought after qualities." _Heavens above! Wash knew exactly who that was. No wonder the Abbess wanted her back within the convent walls. Now that the girl had managed to slip out of the convent's grasp, Washburn realized he could never let her go back. It was time to find Jessa and confront his brother. Muir may not know of this letter from nine years back. Was it enough to prove Jessa was not base born? What mattered most was that he save her from living a hostage life at the Convent of Saint Clair.

Fortified by this new knowledge, with the letter held tightly in his hand, Sir Washburn left his rooms. He paced through the long third floor hall, past the main stairs, and turned right into the west wing. The heels of his boots struck the wood floor, the sound echoing against the walls punctuating his determination. The guards in the hall did not flinch at his passing, but he could sense the curiosity in their eyes. He came before the door to the earl's private apartment. Wash urgently knocked on the door, seeking an immediate audience with the Earl.

A timid chambermaid opened the door and admitted him to the anteroom. The following door to the solar was closed. The maid slipped through it silently, leaving Wash to pace the floor in exasperation. Why was Muir taking his time? The evening was early; surely, he had not retired for bed as yet? Soon, an elderly woman Wash recognized as Melina's personal attendant calmly exited the inner doors and inquired as to the Knight Captain's needs.

"Please, tell my brother that I need a word with him. I'm certain it is not so late that he will deny me an audience."

"M' lord, if you would, please, keep your voice low. My lady is asleep, as is the new bairn in the far room," the elder woman stated in a low voice. "Lord Muir has been gone this past hour. I'm certain you will find him in his office if you look there."

"Very well. May I inquire if Sister Jessa is within? I would like a word with her as well," he said in a low tone, not wishing to alarm anyone on the other side, though he did a poor job of hiding his nerves.

The attendant, her eyes still cast low, could barely hide the tightening of her cheeks in mirth at his request. Did the whole castle know of his feelings? "My lord, the sister was here only for a short time after you left. Father Pernal sent a message that he could see her at the chapel. She excused herself quite abruptly and left with the page."

"Father Pernal? Why would she speak with him?" Wash questioned the attendant, perplexed.

"I rightly do not know, m'lord."

Wash said nothing as he left the room. His quarries were split. Which one would be best to pursue first? The decision was easy; he retraced his steps passed the main stairs, his own rooms, and onward to the east wing where the earl's offices were.

A foreboding hit him as he turned into the east wing hall. The wall sconces were out; the hall was empty, not a page or a guard in sight. With the earl present, there should be two guards and a page here, with the hall well lit. It had been so when he left here a few hours ago. He anxiously reached the thick inlaid oak door and lifted the latch. The door would not budge. His fist pounded the wood surface, and he called Muir's name, then he listened. No voice or sound could be heard from within. Alarm triggered his senses. With a quick brush of magic, he Pushed the inner lock mechanism to turn and spring back, unlocking the door. He swung the door inward with a hard shove. The office anteroom was empty.

"Muir, are you here?" he called, his mind opening to the room, and instantly he sensed the weak energy of a person in the office beyond. Something was drastically wrong.

Washburn took the room in three strides, slamming the next door against its hinges. His eyes raced across the room as his heart sank. The worktable in the center was flipped over on its side. Behind it, a pair of booted feet were seen twitching in tormented motion.

A curse passed the knight's lips as he rushed forward into the room. Muir was face down on the carpet, quivering in a shaking fit. He had been here long enough for sweat and vomit to soak the carpet beneath him. Wash threw his hand quickly over his brother's tightly squeezed eyelids and delved into his mind. He recoiled instantly at the shock there. No shields! No strengths! No Deryni thought! The mind was a quivering confusion of colors, sounds, and traumatic pain. Poison!

Wash pulled Muir away from the table, turning him upright and easing his brother's head upon his knees. He prepared his mind for the anguish, and then pushed through the hysteria. Only one drug to his knowledge resulted in this mass disruption: merasha poisoning. He cupped both hands over Muir's forehead and forced his mind deep into the ill effects of the drug-induced delirium. His thoughts intertwined with the merasha disruption. He, too, nearly succumbed to the mass confusion of the drugs deleterious effects. With force, he pulled his mind from the rapport. Muir yelled aloud at the ripping pain.

"Damn!" Wash cursed, as he took heavy breaths to steady his own powers.

Muir chocked and his body seized, shutting down his lungs. In desperate need, Wash clenched his jaw, managing only short bursts of energy through the midst of the disruption to ease his brother's contracted muscles. He found a shallow level of rapport that he could maintain to keep from losing himself in the delirium. At least this reduced the violent seizure of the earl's tension and allowed the man to breathe.

Neither Deryni had experienced the merasha drug before now. Its horrific property of ripping a Deryni's powers away was nearly unknown, except in high circles where its secrets were hidden for the gain of those in the know. Still, every Deryni heard myths of its existence and was terrified of prospects that someday it might be used against them. Who would have been able to procure this secret drug? Why would they use it against Muir?" Wash squeezed his own eyes shut. It was impossible to work through the chaos of his brother's mind. He could manage nothing more than dulling the body's thrashing. He had to pull away his own thoughts from the victim's screaming, tortured mind.

Wash felt weak and abused when he next opened his eyes. He held his brother close in case another seizure came on. Desperate to discern what had happened, he scanned the room with his dulled senses. Two pewter wine goblets lay on the floor, one of which was dented from its fall from the overturned table. Both goblets' contents of red wine stained the rug where they spilled. Searching further, his sight caught the gleam of a narrow silver flask on the edge of the earl's desk, the symbol stamped on its center face was not recognizable as any wine maker's mark he had ever seen before. Beside it, another goblet stood. He sensed it was still full and untouched with what he knew would be the merasha-tainted wine. Yet two goblets were upon the floor? A horrid, sickening feeling flooded the Knight Captain. Three people had been in the office. Who could the two other people have been?

With difficulty, he forced a desperate mental call for assistance. _"Artimus! Dillon! To me now! Muir's office!" _his mind-speech yelled. Knowing his Deryni lieutenants had heard him, he eased Muir to an upright position against his side to ease the earl's breathing.

Artimus was the first to arrive. He stared aghast at the two brothers on the floor. In an anxious fluid motion, the earl's closest friend drew his sword and leaped forward at Washburn. The point of his weapon stopped at the throat of the Knight Captain. "Have you gone mad? What have you done? Release him!" With a furious undertone, Artimus inched his blade forward until Wash released Muir and let him slide unconscious to the floor. "Curse that Thomas, I told him you would be dangerous if you knew."

On his knees and utterly defenseless, Washburn threw his hands out at his sides, but his eyes never left his brother now quivering once more as he slipped back to the floor. "What the devil would cause you to think I would harm my brother? Arty, it's me! What is going on around here?" Without Wash's numbing influence, Muir's body convulsed again, curling on his side and dry heaving from the torture of his stomach. The Knight Captain reacted. He forced the sword back, slicing his left hand on the lieutenant's sharp blade. He barely noticed it as he reached for Muir and once more used strong bursts of energy to calm his brother's spasms.

Realizing his error with shame, Artimus dropped his blade and knelt beside the two brothers. "Oh my God, I'm sorry. Is he injured?" he stammered.

"It's merasha!" Wash said through clenched teeth and unfocused eyes. "Don't touch that goblet!" he warned when Artimus reached for the overturned wine

Artimus quickly drew his hand away. A startled fear crossed his brows. "Merasha? It really exists? How would anyone…."

"I don't know. I don't think Muir's sustained any injuries, but this drug has him under its full effect. It's… beyond…" Wash's voice trailed off as Muir succumbed to another fit. He tightened his jaw and forced himself to endure the horror. When the seizure passed, he raised his brother once more from the floor.

"Help me carry him to the bench by the hearth. He needs to get off this cold floor." Together they braced the earl's arms over theirs and picked up his knees between them. As they carried him to the settee, Dillon rushed in with four men on his heels, swords drawn, not knowing what they would find.

Dillon's first glance locked on the blood over Muir's forehead and the blood dripping down Washburn's wrist from his cut hand. In an instant, he posted his men about the room, guarding against the chance the enemy was still within.

The Knight Captain shook his head in disgust. "Too little, too late. Find me my guards who were supposed to be at that door," he demanded of his second. "I want to know who else has been in this room in the last hour. I want to know how this happened." Dillon gave the office rooms a thorough search then recalled his men, moving them to guard the door. Out in the anteroom he barked a quick series of orders.

Accepting a bit of cloth from Artimus, Wash first wiped his brother's face then bunched the cloth against his wounded hand. He held his good hand over Muir's forehead, assuring himself of his brother's eased muscles, before he turned a serious eye to his friend. "What wasn't Thomas supposed to tell me? What could possibly make you think I would be responsible for this?" Only once before had Artimus seen Commander Washburn so serious; that was the day the Lendour Knights had been ordered to cover the left flank protecting General Cluim in the forward attack on Rengarth. King Jasher took the center-line, and though the battle was won, the king had lost his life. Prince Cluim surrounded by the Lendour knights was suddenly Gwynedd's King at the climax of that battle. Determination of one Commander had seen the new King through the worst tide of the fighting and then forward to the glory of victory. That same determination was in Sir Washburn's eyes now.

Artimus bit his lip, "Muir ordered me to escort Sister Jessa back to the convent. Thomas overheard when I sent a page to summon Jessa for an audience with the earl in his office. I made him promise he would not tell you." Arty shook his head ashamed. "He disappeared fairly quickly after that; I thought he had gone straight to you. When the page brought Jessa back to Muir's office, I went to the stables, to have two horses saddled at the ready. Muir was to bring Jessa to me there, and I was to take her back to the convent tonight."

"Tonight?" The younger brother's face dropped in his astonishment. "I was told I had until tomorrow." He looked at the face of his unconscious brother and gently pushed the hair back from his closed eyes. "Fool," he said under his breath. "Why do you pander to extortion? What else are you protecting that you would give Jessa up so easily?" Then suddenly Wash's head snapped up and he looked straight at Artimus. "Jessa was here. I know she did not do this. So where is she now, and who was the third person in this room?" He looked up, remembering the flask.

"Paulson, bring me that flask on the earl's desk. Be wary of its contents, it's been drugged." The human knight Paulson hurried passed Dillon and returned, studying the stamp on the front of the container. Arty stopped Wash from reaching for it. Any residue on his cut hand would make him as delirious as Muir.

Instead, Paulson held the flask up for his lord to see. "The stamp is

'S F'! Is this from Saint Foillan's?"

"Cursed, self-righteous priests!" Washburn fumed. "Get me Father Pernal. Now! I know he is in the castle tonight. And find Lady Jessa! If the good Father," he spat the words, "has her in his possession I will kill him!"

Tormented by what might be happening to Jessa as he waited for answers, the Knight Captain ignored the turmoil in the room. Many had entered the room and crowded the space. Arty knelt at his side taking the controls of Muir's abused mind from him, allowing him to scan the room once more. Nothing else seemed out of place. Loud voices of speculation were rampant. At a word from Wash, Dillon took charge and pushed everyone back out of the room into the antechamber beyond.

Minutes later Dillon returned, furious. "We found the two guards locked in a guest room. Both are dead from knife wounds." The three Deryni stared at one another, trying to make sense from the facts. Tensions ran high and none had answers.

Accusations and threats came from the men out in the hall, as Father Pernal was forced forward, his arm twisted behind his back. Wash pounced on him the moment he was thrust in the room. He forced the man up against the wall. With his uninjured hand, he grabbed the silver flask from Paulson, and brandished the opened flask before the priest's face. "Do you recognize this?" His Truth-Saying voice echoed; he would not give the surgeon priest a single chance to lie.

"Yes, Lord Washburn, it is the Abbot's private reserve," said the man without expression. He was unable to resist that coercive glare.

"Did you bring it to the castle?" Wash accused.

"No, my lord," was all the priest could manage.

"Have you seen or touched this flask before now?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Tell me..." Wash prepared to Mind-See if the man did not answer immediately.

"I saw that flask yesterday in the sacristy of the Cathedral. Monsignor Harmon had just arrived from the Abbey. He said it was a gift for a friend. I do not know who was meant to receive this gift."

"Did you know the wine has been poisoned, tainted with merasha?"

"No…. What is merasha?" the Father asked in a bland tone of ignorance. He could not be lying with Wash so intent upon him. Wash let up his gaze then and turned away from the priest.

Muir was awake, staring at his hands as if he could not tell that they were his. Arty nodded at Wash. "My liege is confused, but at least the seizures are ending."

Infuriated, Wash turned back, facing the surgeon priest, attempting to control his rage with little success.

"Tell me, Father Pernal, there is something I need to know. Did you, or Father Harmon, precipitate in my distressed condition two months ago?" the Knight Captain demanded. He no longer used the compulsion on the man to forcibly tell the truth, but he still read whether it was truth or lies in the priest's response.

"I do not condone Father Harmon's hatreds of Deryni. The day we returned from the Festil Pass, I requested a transfer from the Bishop to better serve the people of Lendour. He assigned me to assist your Chaplain here at Castle Cynfyn. I have kept a low profile since I arrived here. I have tried very hard to leave behind the atrocities and intolerances of those who preside within the abbey." Pernal bowed his head over his hands showing his remorse. "On that day in question, I did nothing to harm you."

"You did not? Your tone implies that Father Harmon did knowingly do me injury. If you knew, you could have stopped him." Wash stepped forward, his fists clenching in and out, fighting his attempt at restraint.

"I knew." The Father bowed his head, guilt in his expression. "He hates Deryni. He saw an opportunity to rid the world of one without censure upon himself. He had the opportunity to soil your wounds. What he did, once done, could not be reversed. The business was done before I could react." The priest took in a fearful breath. Quite contrite, he continued, "I am sorry, I did not know then what I know now. I made a devastating error that day, my lord. I did not speak out against my superior. Instead, in personal disgust, I left you in his influence knowing you would die. I left to find others I could assist properly back to health. I am guilty, my lord, but I am not your enemy. I have tried to make penance for my weakness every day since. That you survived that day is a testament to me that God does not hate Deryni, and that he still produces miracles when men's weaknesses cannot be overcome."

Wash stared in astonishment, as did many in the room, at the priest who made confession before all. Unclenching his hands, he paced the room for a moment, reconfiguring all that he just learned. When he came back to Father Pernal, he waved his guards to release him. Yet, he held the priest where he stood against the wall with only his stern gaze. "This miracle that you speak of— this reason the monsignor's attempt on my life failed— is the very thing we are missing now." Wash could not quell the anxiety growing in his gut. "Tell me, why did you meet with Jessa? Where is she now?"

Pernal's eyes went wide. "A page called her to the earl's office just prior to vespers, my lord." His eyes searched the room past Washburn and the others. He realized for the first time the convent girl was not here. "This afternoon, I was sent a request that the novice of the convent had wished to see me. I am busy with my new assignment to assist your chaplain, but the novice's natural talents have me amazed. She arrived at the chapel late this afternoon and we talked of many things, things I am not at liberty to reveal. In the end, she asked for my assistance in drafting a letter to the Bishop to release her from her temporary vows. I assume you have something to do with that," the priest said with a sharp catch in his words.

"I would marry Lady Jessa if everyone would stop thwarting my efforts," the Knight Captain proclaimed aloud for all in the room to hear. He turned an accusing eye on Artimus, who flinched, and on his brother, who was barely conscious on the settee before the warmth of the fire. His anger at his brother melted at the sight of the helpless man.

"If you're not the cause of this, than who, by all that's holy, was the third man in this room? Was Father Harmon here, did he come with you?"

"No. As far as I am aware, Father Harmon is staying at the Cathedral until tomorrow," the priest said with a pause, thinking back. "He told me he would be in prayer all of today with the Bishop as witness." The priest looked about the room, realizing a conspiracy. "The self-imposed penance did seem off tone for Father Harmon."

Washburn turned to his men; his familiar deep voice of command issued forth his orders. "I want every inch of this castle searched. I want to know everyone who has left the gates since the hour of sunset. A Healer's life is at stake and I want her found alive."

"Thank you Father, you may go. Sir Paulson, will you please see Father Pernal safely escorted back to the chapel."

Wash watched the men leave before he turned back to Artimus. "We need to protect Muir for a short time. I'm counting on you to see that he comes to no further harm while we search the castle."

"You have my sworn allegiance, my lord," Sir Artimus said, chagrin at the cut across his commander's palm. He could not afford to make any other mistakes. "Nothing further will harm Muir this night," the lieutenant said. He was already pulling a small leather case from his inside pocket. Within it, Wash knew, were eight ward cubes: four black, four white. Nodding in agreement, Wash came back to his brother's side. Arty spilled the cubes on the floor and began the incantation that would bring about the protective Ward Major.

The younger Cynfyn fell into trance once more with his liege, and found the first horrors of the drug dissipating. For a time he eased his brother's distress and finally found enough calm to allow the man to sleep. _"I'll return as promptly as I can. Sleep this off. It soon won't be as bad, I promise." _

He pulled out of the sleeping mind and watched his brother's breathing for a time. Then he stood and nodded for Artimus to complete the ward. A blue glow of an arcane warding arched over the cushioned settee and surrounded Muir's sleeping body.

"He is safe," Artimus stated, a hint of exhaustion playing across his features.

"I want four guards on this door," Wash ordered. Without question, Dillon quickly assigned four men: two inside the room, and two out. Wash took a deep breath. He was still concerned for Muir's safety, but he knew these four men and where their loyalties lay. He nodded to Dillon and Arty. Then he turned down the main hall with his two lieutenants at his heels. He set more guards on the Lady Melina's doors once he had checked for himself that she and the baby were fine. He and his men paced down the main steps, out the castle's large doors, and into the darkened courtyard.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 - WIC 11.10.985 4****th**** Coin **

Sir Washburn and Sir Artimus centered themselves in the middle of the courtyard where Sir Dillon had the entire house guard turned out to scour the castle and its grounds. Reports from Washburn's earlier inquiries were uninformative. There was no sight of an unknown intruder or the whereabouts of the missing novice Jessa. The portcullis of the castle had been promptly lowered at sunset. The heavily fortified, double-wood gates were barred shut, as they were every evening. The guards assured him that the side gate had not been opened for a single man and per all accounts, there had been no unusual circumstances during the previous hour. The perpetrator was either well away, or he was still somewhere within the curtain walls. Washburn believed the latter. He pushed everyone into the search. He was determined to find answers and to find them quickly.

A loud whistle caught the attention of the men on the wall. It came from high above in the southern tower where a guard peered down between the stone crenelations. By means of relay, his words were passed quickly along to the commander in the center courtyard. A fire had just begun on the southeastern parapet. That section of the wall was hidden by the main castle structure; it could only be seen by looking down from the high towers above.

The Knight Captain was at a full run across the courtyard into the southern guard tower. Running the spiraling inner tower steps, he burst out onto the southern ramparts and sprinted across to the southeast corner tower. The corner curtain wall was the highest in the castle's outer fortifications. It stood fifty feet above the rushing stream of water that pelted down the Lendour Mountains. He ran the tower steps with the feeling of impending dread.

Well ahead of his entourage, Washburn burst out into the night air. The view before him was a culmination of his worst fears. A small spitting flame had ignited an outer layer of dried brush, which rested against loose stacks of cord wood. The bundles of cord wood, commonly used in the outer wall braziers, were mounded haphazardly around the banner flagpole at the outer edge of the rampart's wall. Hung from her wrists, her hands tied high over her head to the flagpole halyard, was a semi-conscious woman in a cream-colored gown. Ropes restrained Jessa's body against the pole at her waist. Her feet dangled over the bundled stacks of wood. In her drugged delirium, her head hung awkwardly between her upstretched arms and appeared too heavy to hold up. Jessa's eyes were wide open, appearing glazed and unfocused. She stared at the wood under her feet and the flames catching on the kindling just beyond. Her mind had not yet grasped her danger.

A shadow was outlined before the growing flames. Here a man stood tall, his dark cloak billowing around him. He held his sword extended in his right hand and an opened book at chest height in his left. He finished reciting a passage of exorcism, and then yelled at the woman in passionate excoriation, "I expel the demons within you and banish you, the demon bringer, to the depths of hell! No more will you taint the living and poison the souls of godly men."

The heavier kindling caught the flame and burst upward with a wave of heat. The woman screamed as the reality of the encroaching fire overpowered her Merasha-induced dementia.

Washburn rushed the shadowed figure, a deathblow planned in his fierce swing of his broadsword. Inconceivably, this man felt his hatred upon his back. He managed to dodge and block the blade's swift arc, bringing it to a jarring halt.

Washburn, already in the start of his next attack, reeled back at the sight of the man as he turned. _My God! _Here stood a friend, a Knight of Lendour.

"She has brought evil among us!" Sir Thomas yelled at his Captain. The knight's features blazed with insane zeal; his head was crowned by the rising flame at his back.

"Thomas! My God, Sir! What have you done?" Washburn exclaimed, staring in disbelief at his once loyal knight. "I command you to desist this insanity at once!"

The knight of Lendour held out the book as if it were a shield. He pointed his broadsword forward, bracing himself before his captain. "She is the demon bringer, my lord," Sir Thomas declared. "Her pet demon tried to ensnare me, and I know he has you enthralled. I have seen him! He tore me away from the gates of heaven and dropped me back on this worldly plane. He darkened my soul, making me see into a man's mind and know what he is thinking. This is devilry," Thomas said, trying to sway his captain to turn back from the evil. "I know you saw him when he cursed the new bairn at the moment of his birth. The monsignors told me that if she repents, than we will all be freed of this demon's curse."

Stunned by this sudden revelation, Washburn held his sword in hesitation. "Demon? Thomas, there is no demon! At the baby's birth stood the essence of a saint, a Deryni Saint, Saint Camber. How is it that you even saw him?" Wash stepped forward, his gaze darting to the woman hanging helpless, her eyes wide, reflecting the rising flames.

Even as Wash realized the truth, Arty and Dillon lunged out the tower entrance. Both men leaped forward together to overwhelm the crazed knight.

As they charged, Sir Thomas began a verse, a short rhythmic verse, a verse that jarred Wash's understanding of the man he thought he knew. The verse was familiar, from a long time memory, the memory of a game Muir and he had played when young. With only words, they had Pushed stones off the east bridge into the river below. No one had seen them, or so they had thought, until Sir Thomas, their sword master, had appeared unnoticed behind them. The knight had been angry at their use of magic and had scolded the boys roundly, threatening to tell their Papa. Yet Wash remembered him repeating the words that evening. Thomas was human, Wash had believed. He had thought it would not matter if the knight muttered the words to himself.

At this very moment, it mattered.

As the words were spoken, Sir Thomas swept his sword wide. A force of magic shoved all three men back. The two running men lost their footing and fell to their knees. Wash was shoved back a great many feet, but he managed to stay standing, just barely.

"You are all consumed by the demon!" the knight proclaimed with a yell. "My lord, look at what she has done to you. She has stolen your warrior's soul and made you weak, too weak to understand the evil she brings into this world." In Thomas's intense focus, he began to glow in an eerie light. "The priests of Saint Foillan have shown me the cure. The poems in this book will force her to repent. Otherwise, she must die to fully save all our souls!"

"He is Deryni," Wash called out to the others as indignation flared within his being. His hands instinctively gripped his sword. Yet Thomas held the red leather book high. He began to read words that were not from a mere literary concoction. What he read was a Deryni spell, an aggressive spell of combat, like spells from the days of Wash's training with the Deryni instructors of the east. Wash realized he'd been pushed too far back to stop the knight with physical force. He needed to focus his mind on the spoken words; for with the intensity that Thomas was displaying, those words could bring forth devastating energies. That energy controlled by an untrained mind could destroy the men who gathered unshielded on the rampart's wall behind him.

Washburn quickly extended his protective shields far out to those men. Raw Deryni power clashed on his shields. "Get back!" Wash yelled. The energies reflected in all directions. Splinters of stone exploded from the collision. The Lendour guards and noblemen dove back into the tower for protection from the flying debris.

When the energies had dissipated to neutrality, Washburn used the moment to step closer. "Thomas, we are friends!" he yelled out. "I can help you. You are Deryni like me."

Sir Thomas did not hear. He was already reading a verse from the book that he held.

"_Of all the earthly elements_

_I call forth the lord of fire,_

_Strike this man,_

_and cleave from him,_

_The evil of her demon's desire"_

All too quickly, a fire demon lumbered out of the blazing pyre. Its molten mass surged forward toward Washburn, dripping fire that burnt the stone beneath its heat.

Instinctively, Wash formulated a counter spell for this dangerous elemental. He called the words aloud as fast as they could be said.

"_Of all the earthly elements,_

_I call forth the power of frost,_

_Strike the lord of fire, _

_and neutralize the flame,_

_Before a life is lost."_

At the distance of a mere few feet from Washburn's outstretched hands, a fountain of ice shards speared the fire demon, splitting it into smaller and smaller flames until all were tiny sparks of flint and ash.

A woman's horrified scream distracted the knight captain's concentrated focus on the next spell already being leveled against him. His eyes left his crazed friend to watch in horror as the flame leaped into the heavier woods near the Healer's feet. Smoke poured over the convent maiden, and already she was suffering from breathing the heated, heavy fumes. Wash's heart sank. He could not get to her in time.

Due to his distraction, he had missed the key words of his opponent's incantation. At a loss for the counter spell, his fighting instincts took command. He rushed at Thomas, brandishing his sword, intent on incapacitating his friend before the spell was complete. Beyond him, Arty and Dillon had pulled on their thick-leather gloves and they were already attacking the blaze, as it burned hotter. They grabbed each flaming timber with shielded, gloved hands, tossing the wood aside before grabbing the next one. Within three strides of the Knight Captain reaching his foe, the deranged Deryni yelled out the last words of his spell. All too late, Washburn recognized the dark magic of a twilight schism.

A wall of purple energy formed before the knight Captain of Lendour. His feet slid to a shuddering halt before the swirling mass of a thousand tiny points of abysmal darkness. The points churned and grew even as his mind raced for a counter spell. In that second of hesitation, Thomas yelled, _"Banish the demon's evil which consumes this man!" _ The twilight mass attacked the noble knight. The purple haze surged over Washburn and the black energy twirled around him like a maelstrom. The force pushed in on him and pressed on his chest; it propelled him to his knees and tightened his throat. Breathing became an act of desperation.

His two Deryni lieutenants were too intent on saving the woman he loved to notice his distress. If he distracted them now, she would die. His mind could not find the response to this consuming spell. In torment, he realized he had never touched on dark magic; such knowledge was forbidden. He was a noble knight, not a malevolent sorcerer. How had Thomas come by this book? Who had given it to him?

Washburn withered from the pressure seizing him on all sides. Without the counter spell, only the death of his opponent would free him of this curse. In a last desperate act, he shifted defensive spell to offensive. His lips spoke the spell of his father's with barely enough air to breathe them to life.

"_From the forested mountains of Lendour,_

_Between the lands of Valoret, Carcashale, Dhassa, and, Corwyn, _

_In the ancestral home of my kin,_

_I call forth the powers inherited of my blood _

_I_—_"_

Jessa's gown caught a spark at her feet. The fire caught on the hem of the cloth. It simmered and threatened to grow even as the two men pulled the more threatening fagots of wood aside.

For a moment, Wash's focus floundered in suffocation. From the depths of his lungs, Lord Washburn forced the very last of his air out with a shout of the spell's last words.

"— _smite thee with the strengthened crest of Cynfyn." _

The red Stag of Cynfyn leaped off the heraldry of Washburn's tunic. The family crest came to life, even as the lord was engulfed by the shifting purple and black mass. The psychic mass pushed down on Wash, collapsing him to his hands. His throat constricted allowing for no breath at all. The mass solidified around him, banishing him from the world. The men filtering out of the tower entrance watched their lord be encased by an opaque sphere. They stopped, terrified, too afraid to interfere.

However, the hart had escaped from the bounds of the sphere. It leaped outward, landing on the stone walk. Its size grew full, its coloring turned proper, and the beast's antlers became long and majestic with age. The stag reared high, forelegs challenging the enemy of his caller. His ruby red eyes glared at his enemy.

Sir Thomas backed away dumbfounded, his features filled with confusion. His shaking hand turned a page in the book, but that next page was blank. No poems were there to stop this forest beast. The priests of the Abbey had told him untruths. The last ritual poem should have cleansed his target of evil, not destroyed the life that it hit. His eyes went wide with fear as he realized his error. "But I am not Deryni!" he shouted, remembering Lord Washburn's accusation. "Or… or am I?" A doubtful look crossed Thomas's face. "Grandfather, was this the secret that you said I must forget?" Thomas stared at the Cynfyn beast, only just beginning to comprehend. Some heard him say, "Oh Lord, what have I done?" as he stood there, transfixed before the gleaming red eyes.

The Stag of Lendour only saw an enemy. In defiance, the hart lowered his antlers and leaped forward at a gallop. For an instant, Thomas might have thought it just a mirage, an illusion that would dissipate when it reached him, but the image was real. The antlers impaled his body on every forward-facing tip of bone. It lifted him high above the walkway, and then, with a giant leap, the Stag of Cynfyn carried Sir Thomas over the balustrade wall. The stunned men watching would say the stag dissipated at mid-height, leaving only the body of the old sword master to land in a crushing heap onto the sharp rocks of the raging stream below.

All turned bleakly quiet. Only the sound of flames remained, just the crackle of fire in the heap of dried wood. Three guards ran to assist the two lieutenants at the pyre. The rest stood astonished, watching the sphere of darkness as it began to vibrate. Slowly at first, fine lines formed over its surface. They grew thicker as the intensity of quaking increased. With a final shake, the black orb shattered as like a ball of glass, thousands of shards falling away to the ground. Within the broken pieces, the freed captain fell face down onto the cold stone.

The captain's men, stunned by the use of magic, watched his stillness and feared the worst. His personal squire was the one who dared to come forward. Looking for any sign of breath, Robby's hand touched the fallen lord's face: nothing. He shook his liege's shoulder, desperate for any response. Then, all at once, the prone body inhaled, gasping harshly. Robby grasped Washburn's shoulder tighter with both hands. The captain shuddered and coughed, every small breath expanding the painful crush of his chest. With help, Wash raised his body to his elbows to fill his lungs, but his mind exploded with pain and dizziness. Robby put his arms under him and kept Wash from falling back to the stone. Washburn's bout with asphyxiation tormented every muscle in his body.

Barely breathing, Washburn remembered with anguish the flames still sputtering near the flagstaff. His two lieutenants with the help of others had pulled the last of the cord wood away from the pole. Arty used his dagger to cut across the flaming dress and pull it free of the woman's body. Dillon in the same instant cut through the ropes binding her waist. All at once, the burning fabric dropped away to the stone. Jessa hung from her wrists, strung to the halyard line, several feet above the walk. Shards of cloth hung from her hips, though most had been torn away, exposing her long legs. Deep burns blackened and blistered the fair skin below her knees. She was conscious, but only just, as she forced air through heat-seared lungs.

Washburn was there at her side, forgetting his own distress. He helped ease her down as Arty reached high to cut the bonds at her wrists. Wash wrapped her in his cloak and then draped her across his arms. He held her tight to his chest and realized how close he had come to losing her. He could not lose her, not ever. His mind thrust into her delirium; the influence of merasha was strong. He endured the disruption, sending bursts of pain-reducing energy into her injured body. She smiled up at him then with dry eyes, her eyelashes and eyebrows singed away, the strands of hair just at her hairline blackened and brittle. With a shaky hand, she reached up and touched his face. His swift reassurance of unconditional love protected her tattered mind. The merasha had issued its first devastating effects of contortion and pain. Those effects had run their course, and her Deryni powers were completely gone. Relieved of the stress of near death, Jessa relaxed within the strong arms of her black knight.

Escorted by his men, Lord Washburn carried the maiden away from the horror of the flames still burning there. They went down the tower stairs and entered the guard tower rooms. He passed through these, and then beyond into the officers' quarters on the second floor. He followed the hall to the main staircase and climbed to the family's third floor. His rooms were the first at the top of the steps. Realizing many still followed him, he stopped to give out orders.

"Arty, see to Muir. Take him to Melina; she will take care of him. I want you, personally, outside his door for the rest of the night. Dillon, find me Pernal. Have him bring burn ointments and bandages. After, send in a chambermaid, one of Melina's ladies will do as chaperone. Then I'll need you in my solar for the rest of this horrific evening. Oh and I'll need Paulson—, there you are, I need you to gather Sir Thomas's two sons. Your previous protections against Deryni influence should protect you should they try to follow in their father's footsteps. Keep them safe in their rooms, and say nothing to them until morning when one of us will come and handle this tragedy." With orders given, Washburn entered his apartment and continued to the last room, wherein he laid the injured woman down upon his bed. He heaped the pillows up underneath her, and then sat on the bed, encasing her in his arms. Nothing would make him part from her side now.

Several minutes passed before Dillon came into the Knight Captain's private chamber. Concern creased his brow. "Father Pernal is in the outer room. Are you sure it is him whom you want? I can call your battle surgeon down in the city and have him here in a short time."

"Thank you. Pernal will do. Show him in."

Dillon nodded and bowed out, returning quickly with the priest behind him. The priest entered the room balancing jars and rolls of cloth in his arms. His cool demeanor and fortitude enabled him to enter a proven Deryni's private domain. He looked at the injured woman, urgently saying a prayer, and then waited for the Deryni lord to give him leave.

"Father!" Washburn started, judging the surgeon priest's reaction as he spoke. "We have had a bad beginning. Both of us have made serious errors in judgment. I am forgiving you for your indifference to my plight weeks back, and I would wish to ask of you your forgiveness in my mishandling of your person this day. Earlier you declared you were not my enemy; do you still stand by what you said?" The Deryni lord's tone was serious. Much had happened, and he needed to know which way this man would lean. Trust, at this moment, was a hard thing to judge. Emotions were high, and nerves were frayed.

"I will stand by what I said," the priest stated, although there was apprehension in his tone. "I am not your enemy."

"But you're not my friend, either," Wash stated more then asked, noting the other man's hesitance. "I can accept that. Most would run from the horror of what just occurred out on that wall. I can appreciate your courage to stand before me."

"Will you permit me to treat her?" the physician asked as he placed the armload of medical supplies on a near table. At Washburn's nod, he walked to the opposite side of the bed. His eyes fell to the delirious woman lying against the pillows. A low rasp echoed in her throat with every breath. The priest's expression filled with concern as he leaned over the bed and lifted up the lady's limp eyelid. With dismay, he looked into her dilated, unfocused stare. "You said merasha did this?" he asked, unable to comprehend such a drug. "How long does this last? I had not heard of it before today, nor have I seen these effects before. I pray this is not permanently damaging?"

"I have no answer for you, Monsignor," Wash replied with a sigh. "It is a drug used against Deryni to strip us of our powers. From what I have witnessed, the body convulses to be rid of it, and the senses are overwhelmed until the mind is blurred into delirium. From the stories of the past, all that I know is that every Deryni who has been dosed with it has died with it in their system. There is no defense left to the victim against an enemy who is powerful enough to procure such a drug."

"The earl!" Pernal thought aloud, displaying a sincere level of concern. "He was never the target, but he still could be, in his weakened state."

"My brother is well protected," Wash said, a little surprised.

"I still do not understand. Why Sister Jessa?"

"They discovered her ability, which marks her as Deryni, and an easy target not protected by the crown." Anger flared in Washburn's next words. "What has happened was no more than what your fellow monsignor strategically willed to happen. He poisoned the mind of a good man." Washburn's face was red as he blew out a breath and leaned back against the carved-wood headboard. He forced his arms to stay gentle in his embrace of the injured maiden. The pounding imbedded deep behind his temples only served to emphasize his guardianship for this innocent lady. In protecting her he had caused the death of a friend; his guilt was tormenting his soul. "Why?" he asked as he stared at the ceiling. "Even if Thomas was convinced that the manifestation of Saint Camber was a demon, how could he possibly have believed we were so deluded by him? He worked so closely with us for years, and until today I believed he knew our hearts. Did he truly think we couldn't tell the difference between good and evil?" Wash squeezed his eyes shut against the grief. "A friend died today needlessly…," the knight captain said, swallowing hard. "He died from my hand…. I should have found another way. There must have been another way," he said miserably.

Pernal was silent while he measured medicine into a small glass. He swirled the red liquid then held it to the maiden's lips. She swallowed with a cough then settled back into Washburn's arm. The priest watched her reaction for a moment then stood back, shaking his head. When he at last spoke, his words held no blame. "Tonight, I stood witness to events beyond my comprehension, but unless you have completely deceived me, what I saw was a man in defense of his own life, in an attempt to rescue a woman from a madman." He reached down and touched Jessa's wrist, noting the rope burns as he checked her easing pulse. "There is a mild sedative in that. It should relax her tension and her breathing in a few minutes." The physician stoppered the medicine bottle and walked back to the table and the items he had brought.

He stood there frowning at a jar of medicine, not looking up. "How Sir Thomas became mad, I can answer you in part. I was there on the morning after the battle when Sir Thomas came to Father Harmon claiming he had been touched by an entity. I had asked him what his vision had been, and he described a hand touching his mind and a ghostly image of a cowled man leaning over him. I had no answer, but Father Harmon was instantly in a rage. He talked on about demons stealing men's souls at death and placing them back in life to do the work of evil. He became aggressive and persuaded Sir Thomas to follow us back to the abbey to be exorcised of this demonic influence." The monsignor closed his eyes, ashamed. "I pulled the knight aside and tried to calm his fears with prayer, but he was desperate to be redeemed and he willingly followed Father Harmon where he led." The priest whispered a new prayer asking for forgiveness. "I had not saved you from Father Harmon's rancour, rumors had you near death, and I could not save Sir Thomas from his hallucination. Twice I had failed. I left the Abbey, unable to bear the shame."

The silence in the room was deafening. The medicine had relaxed the harsh breathing of the injured maiden. She lay quietly in that awkward space of time. Pernal's shoulders slouched, his eyes closed, and his knees weakened; he waited for the Deryni lord to condemn him. Washburn was as much ashamed that the priest expected him to lash out as he was of the truth that was unfolded.

"It seems the burden of this death is shared by me with another. And that other is not you, Monsignor. I will not hold you responsible for the actions of your brethren."

Pernal opened his eyes acknowledging Lord Washburn's acquittal, but he shook his head unable to accept it. "Judgment must be left for God to decide," he whispered. Then Father Pernal looked over to the Deryni lord. "I trust you will seek His wisdom in this matter," he requested of the Knight Captain.

"Yes, Father," Wash hesitantly replied.

Pernal shook his hands to release the tension. He studied the medicines on the table again, and then finally picked up the jar of ointment and a roll of cloth. When he returned to the bed he had regained his composure. His physician's eye reviewed the burns on the maiden's legs and feet and his frown deepened. "When the effect of merasha is gone, she will need to be strong enough to Heal. We must keep the fever away long enough for her to recover her abilities. These are serious burns, my lord. If the flux of fever takes hold, she may not be able to heal." With a caring hand, he laid heavy cloth under each of the maiden's legs and then delicately dabbed the damaged flesh until all was covered with the ointment. "This will give some relief, but I fear it may not be enough to keep the evils of fever away." He stalled for a moment surprised by his own thoughts, then suggested, "My lord, I understand Deryni have an ability to temper pain. Are you willing to care for her through the night?"

"Yes, Father, I am," the Knight Captain replied. He watched the priest carefully wrap each of the maiden's legs. Pernal's voice was full of concern, far more so than the doctrine of the Church, who condemned Deryni, should have allowed. Wash gathered his strength to voice his own concerns. "Father Pernal, my mind tells me to trust you, forgive me, but my experiences have tempered that point of view," he said unsure. "Your superiors have accused Deryni of being an accursed race. Yet you seem more willing to deal with me directly and honestly. It is refreshing yet a bit disconcerting as well. As you have now witnessed, I have the power of magic in my hands, yet I would tell you that magic is no more evil than fire; it can light our path and warm the hearth, or it can burn." Washburn hugged the burned girl closer to his chest.

The instinctive reaction to magic caused the priest to bless himself. Wash gathered his courage and dared what he had not dared before with a man of the cloth. "If you stay with us here in the chapel of Castle Cynfyn, than you will eventually learn that my brother and I are not the only members of this house who are Deryni. There are many here who claim sanctuary from the intolerance of the land in which we live. I will tell you that none of them are evil." Father Pernal remained silent. Wash sighed, rubbing his temple to relieve his pain, "I fear that the horror put out on display tonight will have destroyed any attempt I might make to prove our benevolence."

Father Pernal said nothing for a long while. He completed his bandaging before he heartened to Washburn's concern. "My son, I am first a priest of God, and second a physician of human healing. I have sworn vows and oaths to adhere to virtue, and to hold all life with reverence. I learned a life's lesson two months back: the holding of power and knowledge does not define you as good or evil. The use of that power defines your purpose, not your racial disposition. I watched Father Harmon use the knowledge of medicine against you. It was days later, before I learned you had not died, that the power of Healing had saved your life. Six days ago, I discovered that Sister Jessa was the source of that gift spoken of in legend. I have stood witness to the miracle of her abilities. Her gift has confounded me; it can only come from God's hands. So I ask you, how can I condemn the whole race when some of those with in that race hold the favor of God's hand?"

Looking for the strength to say what was truly on his mind, the priest found the courage in the knight's accepting nod. "Though I will tell you in truth that the events of tonight have raised some apprehension," the priest stated, bravely verbalizing his fears, "the power I saw wielded tonight was greater than my imaginings. If humans and Deryni are to live together in peace, then each of us, individually from both races, must maintain a faithful adherence to our moral responsibilities." He came to the side of the bed once more and dabbed ointment on the milder burns that had touched Jessa's face. "For the sake of this child, I have opened my eyes and seen where understanding and even friendship can grow between us. But to gain a full peace between your race and mine?" He stepped back from the bed and looked across at the Deryni lord. "Fear, as we witnessed tonight, is a very compelling force. It leads to hate, which consumes the soul and brings on madness. The Church has the power to extinguish that fear, yet some choose to extinguish an entire race instead. I know that cannot be the answer. In some way, we must achieve an understanding between our two people."

"I hope that understanding has begun between you and me," the Knight Captain of Lendour said with a light smile. Washburn weighed his next words against the small gain he had just made and decided a man's soul was as important. "Father, I have a boon to request. Although I do not believe the man that spoke the words had any evil intent, I do believe that his words touched on something that was not of the good of this world. Would you say a prayer for Sir Thomas? Please pray that he is justly received into God's hands. I reject the notion that this event was of his own doing. Would God condemn him after a lifetime of good will?"

"It is hard not to condemn a man for his last deeds. I see in your heart that you think the good of him outweighs this misguided wrong. There at the end, Sir Thomas did appear to repent. Your guards are searching for his body along the riverbanks. As soon as he is retrieved, I will offer conditional absolution for the deliverance of his soul. You surprised me. I admit I have not been here long, but I have not seen the Lords of Lendour within the walls of our chapel. I had wondered if Deryni prayed at all."

"Monsignor, we are neither devils nor heathens. It is hard to go where you know you are openly condemned. Our current chaplain is not as forgiving as you seem to be. At times, it is easier to take service with Bishop Michael at the Cathedral than it is to use our small chapel. Perhaps this is why Bishop Michael has sent you to us. I praise him if that is his intention."

Father Pernal nodded in understanding. "Then let us ask for God's forgiveness for Sir Thomas." He folded his hands and said the words of prayer. He additionally asked for forgiveness of Sir Washburn's actions to protect the lives of his brother and that of Sister Jessa. The prayer concluded with a blessing.

When the physician priest left, Washburn knew a man he had mistakenly thought to be his enemy had become an important friend.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13- WIC 11.11.985 4th Coin**

The night, as it passed, was very long. Wash leaned heavily against the pillows at the head of his bed, with his protective arms around the injured maiden who had stolen his heart. Lady Lisa sat on a soft chair by the low burning fire. Her hands held some sewing, but it had long been forgotten as she had fallen asleep. Wash closed his eyes too, but he could not sleep. With a mental spell, he pushed back the throb of pain behind his eyes, and ignored the presence of the icy swelling that stiffened the cut on his palm. These were tolerable when compared to the misery Jessa suffered from. Father Pernal's medicine gave her some relief from the burns, but nothing seemed to counteract the effects of her merasha-induced headache that was embedded behind her closed eyes. To reduce the torment, Wash purposely willed Jessa to sleep. It worked for about an hour, until the nightmares began. Jessa moaned and churned as the visions of fire engulfed her senses. He made a few desperate attempts to follow her nightmares, but the drug's disruption allowed him little more than a quick glimpse of flames that were larger and more terrifying than the horror from this terrible night. What he could discern was the view from a child's eyes; she was held in a nobleman's arms, with an inferno of flames all around them.

Washburn wished he could decipher her nightmare. The torture from it only served to enhance the pain from her real burns. To clear the imagery, Wash was forced to wake her. He would soothe her fear, contend with her pains, and then, once more, he would try to ease her mind with sleep. He did this several times during the night. Each time he prayed the peace would last longer than it had the time before.

When Jessa slept, Washburn's own discomfort would grow. Without the distractions, the pounding of his head was nearly as bad as that which was caused by the drug. He dismissed it as caused by the links he made with both drugged victims. Instead, he tortured himself with guilt; a friend had somehow lost his way. He should have seen it. He should have known. He should have done something to prevent it.

The morning came drearily with his squire's arrival in the room. There was obvious concern in the boy's continual glances at his mentor. Wash attributed it to the woman in his bed. He eased his numb arm from under Jessa and left her sleeping against the pillows. Shaking his stiff hand to get some felling back, he followed Robby into the wardrobe. He had not changed from yesterday's clothes and he was hoping the fresh fabric might improve the new day's outlook. However, Robby moped unhappily until Wash asked for an explanation.

"Last night on the wall, I thought you had died. Thank the heavens, you breathed. My lord, please forgive me, but this morning, in the light, you don't look well to me. Did you not sleep at all during the night?"

Wash shook his head. "No, I've not gotten any sleep. Although, I am not the one who requires your concern today. Is there news from the earl this morning? Is my brother well?" the knight asked deeply concerned.

"I have been informed that Lord Muir is resting well. Sir Artimus has said for you not to worry, many hands are seeing to his needs," Robby said, as he set out fresh breeches and tunic on the dressing stand.

Wash reached for the fur-lined cloak after Robby had tied his knight's belt. "It's a chilly morning," Wash stated with a shiver. He looked into the mirror, noticing how the black tunic made his complexion appear ghastly pale in the early morning light.

"As soon as you're able, Robby, would you summon chambermaids to relieve lady Lisa and care for the novice? And please find me something warm to eat. Damn, it is cold this morning." He pulled the cloak across his shoulders huddling his left arm in the thick fox fur.

Robby had a few quiet words with Lady Lisa as he dutifully placed a log of wood on the fire. The squire shivered as the flames leaped upward. It was apparent that Wash was not the only one who had frayed nerves from the memory of last night.

Three chambermaids soon arrived, and Lady Lisa suggested that for propriety's sake they move Jessa to her own bed. Washburn disagreed, his reply nearly hostile. The older lady, subdued and intimidated, let the subject lapse, but the women whispered among themselves whenever they thought their lord was out of hearing. It did not matter what they said, he was beyond caring about gossip and petty rants. The scandal of a woman in his room was trivial next to the real threat of losing her if he let her out of his sight. Lady Lisa did manage to usher him out of his room so they could care for and dress the injured novice in fresh garments. At least they were kind to Jessa. It appeared she had made friends in her week's stay at the castle.

Robby returned, carrying a warm breakfast stew and mulled spiced wine that he placed on the table. Wash sat to eat, but after a bite, he lost interest in it. He sipped the wine, absently finding it too sweet for his taste, and pushed the goblet next to the discarded meal. Feeling cold and anxious, Wash began pacing the floor. Without Jessa to distract his mind, he continued to worry over last night's horrid mix of events, and the death of a friend.

A bit further into the morning saw Washburn settled in his front room attempting to answer some correspondence he had left from the day before, but his concentration had abandoned him. He pushed the letters next to a plate of bread that had replaced the uneaten stew and listened to the chattering of the chambermaids in the next room. He should have been irritated by what he heard, but instead the noise lulled him, finally, into a state of forgetfulness.

Later, he did not know how much later, Robby shook his shoulder, bringing him up with a start. The breath he took in seared his lungs, as if he had forgotten to breathe for a very long time.

"My lord Washburn, Lord Muir is here to see you," Robby announced, appearing overly concerned before he stepped back, revealing Muir already in the room. The older brother stood at the bedroom door, studying the semiconscious woman in the younger brother's bed. Wash stepped up to Muir's side, seeing what he saw. The chambermaids had just finished brushing the girl's silken hair against the pillows; it was the only beauty she retained. The heat blisters and burns marred her youthful face. Her shallow, harsh breaths tore at his heart.

With a wave, Muir dismissed the women from their ministrations. Then he dismissed Robby with a nod. After seeing everyone else out, Robby bowed low and then closed the outer door as he left. Muir closed the inner door to the sleeping room and came to the small table that held the discarded letters and an untouched plate of bread.

"I want to thank you for taking care of me last night. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life," Muir said. Wash noted how his brother still looked unwell. Without shields to protect his mind and without Deryni perception, Muir looked like the recently blind trying to cope in a room where all the furniture had been moved.

"You've not recovered, my lord. I can sense the drug still has you at a disadvantage. It is not wise to wander the halls in such a defenseless state." Wash stated his voice full of concern.

Muir just nodded his head and then mumbled about Dillon having guards at his back. "I actually had to order them to stay outside your door." He gave a wry grin as he circled the chair and sat down. He looked up more seriously at his brother who brooded by the bedroom door. Repeating an account he had heard of last night's disastrous events, he then waited for Wash to respond.

Wash nodded; all of that was true. His expression grew serious as he came back to the table and looked across it at Muir. Hiding his irritation, Washburn asked for the truth. "I know you were sending Jessa back to the convent last night. Arty told me. He said Thomas found out. What happened after you sent for Jessa?"

Muir knew there was no use in denying his actions. "Jessa tried to persuade me from forcing her return to the convent. She did not name you as the reason, but she begged that I let her stay. I denied her request. That's when Thomas came to my office. He already knew I was sending her back, and he asked to be her escort. There was something odd in his tone that gave me pause, so I denied his request as well. I was surprised when he dropped the subject so quickly; instead, he offered up a flask of wine to thank the healer for saving his life," Muir said this as his thoughts raced back to the previous night. "Neither she nor I detected the betrayal in that flask. There should have been some hint— I just never expected an attack from that quarter."

Washburn shivered from the possible consequences of Sir Thomas's delusions. "He would have killed her on the road, if you had let him take her. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," the earl said sadly. "I am sorry, I did not know it then, but I do now."

Anger at the betrayal from a friend flared in the Knight Captain's eyes. "The man was my sword master in youth and my friend since then. How could he have turned against me like that? How could either of us have missed that he was Deryni?" Wash ranted, upset at the betrayal. With a desperate sigh, he stopped at the table and absently grabbed a piece of bread. Without answers, Muir put his head in his hands closing his eyes in obvious distress. Wash was too overwrought to notice. He nibbled the bread but found it distasteful and tossed it back on the platter.

"The signs were there. I have spent the whole night in self-reproach, cursing myself for not seeing them. Did you know that on the day after the battle Thomas followed Father Harmon back to the abbey? The man nearly died while protecting my side and yet once he was healed no one took the responsibility to check on his condition? He was distraught, trying to understanding his healing. He was looking for an explanation for the apparition he had seen— an apparition that only a Deryni can see!" Wash turned back to the table leaning heavily on his right hand. His left hand curled up in a fist over the swelling of his wound. He pounded the table with it, barely registering how hard he had banged the wood. Muir jumped at the sound. "Who would have ever imagined the hate-mongering Harmon would have interpreted that visitation of a Saint that healed the body, to that of a devil worshiping demon that consumed the soul?"

There was a long silence. Wash stared at his brother. Muir's eyes rose from the knight captain's hands to meet his brother's angry stare. Muir's features twisted with both his outward concern and his inward pain. Wash sighed and sat down at the table. He desperately wished in some way he could reverse the cause of the previous night's ordeal.

"I'm sorry. I know you don't feel well. This is probably not the best time for this conversation, as we are both out of sorts, but I need for you to explain to me why we are sending an exorbitant amount of funds to the convent twice yearly. And why, for God's sake, would you risk everything to send Jessa back into that hostage situation?" Washburn pulled out from the inside of his tunic the letter from their aunt, written nine years earlier.

Muir's eyes went wide at the sight of it. He started to say several rhetorical comments then stopped himself. "I guess there is no use lying as you can see into my soul right now," Muir admitted. He read the letter with a shiver, and then handed it back to Wash. "Sister Meris is our father's sister Merissa, as you have guessed. She has been a nun at Saint Clair's for forty years. Our grandfather started the payments in good faith, protecting the wellbeing of the Deryni within those walls. Some years ago, father was late on a payment. Before the payments were renegotiated, two women were burned at the stake."

"Aunt Merissa?" Wash asked with his eyes wide.

"I get one letter from her every six months. This is the abbess's way of reminding me when the next funds protecting my ward are due. The letters are never written in our aunt's hand but they do allow her to sign it. From the short messages in the signature, I am assured Aunt Merissa is still alive."

Washburn stared at his brother. A word struck a chord and an inkling of understanding began to appear. "Your ward?" he asked. "I was never told you had a ward."

"A Deryni child has been a ward of the Lords of Lendour since the day she was found within a tavern in the city twelve years ago. The funds protecting my ward also protect the five other Deryni nuns living within the convent."

Washburn watched Muir's downcast eyes for a long moment. "Are you saying that Jessa is your ward? You have known of her all along." It all began to make sense. "Did you know that she was a Healer? Is that why you sent Artimus to the convent those weeks ago?"

Muir put his head between his hands. "Yes, yes, I have known of it from the day I inherited the earldom from our father. It is a decades-old negotiation made between our house and the convent. There are six Deryni women held hostage for the funds we give twice yearly. To make the money justifiable in the eyes of the Church hierarchy, it is said to be a gift for the care of my ward, the girl Jessa. If the day came when she left the convent or took her full vows, the biannual payments would cease. The dowry for a common girl would not be enough to satisfy the abbess for long. If the house of Cynfyn no longer had a respectable reason to send money to the convent, then I have every reason to be concerned for the welfare of all the Deryni women living there. In very concise terms, Mother Phyla Mary has assured me that if the payments stop, she will lose her incentive to care for the well-being of those women." Pain filled the earl's face. "Her current letter reminded me of this. I see no other options here. I'm sorry."

Washburn let Muir's words sink in his mind; his sleeplessness was degrading his concentration. "This is the tolerance of the Church? They threaten these women's lives! Women who have freely given themselves to our Lord. You cannot send her back, I won't let you! Jessa is done with the Church. Father Pernal assisted her in drafting a letter yesterday, which has already been sent to Bishop Michael, requesting her release from the vows she has taken. I will defend her from the Church, from mad men, and from you if I have to. It is time we stop the ransom payments, and as it seems necessary, save those women in danger from the Abbess of Saint Clair."

"And just how do you intend to do that?" Muir questioned his brother. Neither man had an answer. "Well, for now we have a delay; Jessa is injured, and cannot be moved. We have earned a few days to get our heads back into functioning order. When we are both thinking with clearer minds, we will need a solution."

The Knight Captain nodded, but could not imagine what that solution could be. Looking up, he studied his brother's furrowed brow and saw the difficulty Muir was having keeping his thoughts in line.

"I'm pestering you when you should be in bed, recovering." Wash held out his hands, concerned.

The older brother's face fell, giving up the charade of control. His eyes wilted from the pain hiding behind them. "You remember that day when we broke into Father's private wine cellar. We drank down two of his prized bottles of Fianna Wine."

"Yeah, I don't know which was worse, the lash or the hangover."

"Well, take both together and add tenfold to it. I don't even think that would come close to this headache I have now." Upon hearing this, Wash touched his brother's wrist with dismay, but Muir lifted his hands to forestall him. "Melina has been a God-send to me. Since last night, she has seen to my needs. It is good to have a wife who can give me a strong bairn and loves me with caring arms as well." His eyes passed over to the closed bedroom door. "Do you truly love this girl as you say you do? It's not just a fascination with her healing talent, or because I have told you that you can't have her?"

Wash closed his eyes. "Maybe it is because of her healing talent. Part of it anyway. Maybe because she is innocent, and beautiful, and kind. Muir, I have fallen in love with her. I need her as much as she needs me. Together, we bridge the gaps that have caused pain in both our individual lives."

Muir accepted the statement, unable to judge the truth without his Deryni abilities. "Very well, you solve my problem with the Deryni nuns at the convent, and I will consent to your marriage."

Washburn smoothed his hands flat on the table and gave an appreciative nod. "Thank you," he said.

Muir's face softened. "Both of you deserve a little happiness." Muir tilted his head and rubbed his brow. "This is far worse than blindness. I cannot read anyone around me. When will this drug let me be? I can see color and hear sound, but everything is so empty. There is no depth, no inner essence, no weight of consciousness, and I can't tell truth from lies. How do humans survive with so little perception?" Muir looked like a man lost. "I'm going back to bed," he finally proclaimed. The Earl of Lendour stood, careful to maintain his balance. He walked to the outer door. Before he opened it, he turned and made a final remark. "I already told Arty and Dillon they have the run of things, so you better get some rest too. You look as exhausted as I feel."

After Muir stepped out of the room, Wash watched the door for a time, trying to reason out the problems at hand. It was useless; his mind was too thick with sleeplessness to make sense of anything. He gave up and walked through the doors to the bedroom where the frail, injured young woman slept in his bed. Her beauty, in his Deryni perception, was beneath the blotchy red-blisters on her face and the rope burns around her wrists. Jessa was a caring soul, a woman with love to give, wanting so little in return. Merasha was a harsh teacher. Both Jessa and Muir were battling the difficult test forced upon them. Wash sat in the chair at Jessa's bedside and wrapped his hand over her's. He sent energy through his touch. He would will her back to health if he could.

"_My Lord Washburn, wake up!"_ called a familiar voice that seemed somehow strange and distant. It shook Wash out of his frozen state of sleep. His head rested on the edge of the bed. He felt Jessa's hand urgently holding his hand tight. Her unshielded mind echoed her fear when he was slow to wake up. He lifted his head and barely saw through a haze of fog. One of Melina's maids stood at the far side of the bed. She had been here all day to insure that nothing untoward occurred between himself and the maiden. His eyes next looked up at Robby who stood wringing his hands together near the foot of the bed. But it was Artimus whose hands shook Washburn's shoulder and whose voice urgently called in his mind. _"Wake up, my friend! Tell me how you are feeling!"_

Wash blinked the blur from his vision. "What? Arty, I'm fine, just a bit sleepy." He blinked several more times, but his sight remained fuzzy on the periphery.

"I have been trying to wake you for the last five minutes. My lord, you are not fine." Arty wrapped his hand about his commander's wrist and turned his left hand over. The palm and fingers were swollen and red from the cut of Arty's sword. "With all of Father Pernal's ministrations, you did not think to have him properly treat this?"

Wash smiled a bit dizzily. "It was a clean cut; I have had far worse than this." Wash pulled his hand away. But a strange look crossed his lieutenant's face, and Arty refused to release his commander's wrist.

"You're not hot from fever, your cold, cold like ice." His eyes turned toward the hearth that was blazing, like on a deep winter's night. Washburn had made the servants stoke it high, attempting to dispel the chill that ran through his bones. "How long has he been like this?" Artimus asked of Washburn's squire. "Why did you not come to me sooner?"

Robby quelled at the lieutenants gaze. "I…."

"Arty, leave him be. I told him several times that I was fine. There is no need to be alarmed. It is just a temporary numbness, it should ease in time."

"No need for alarm!" Artimus sternly admonished. "You're not fine and that is not temporary. Black magic is not to be shrugged at. Curse that Thomas!" Artimus picked up a book he had placed on the end of the bed. "Recognize this?" the man asked with a frown.

Wash nodded, as did Robby, even Jessa stared at the book with fear in her eyes. They had all seen this tall, thin tome in Sir Thomas's hand as he ranted before the flames he had built to burn a Deryni.

"One of the guards brought this to me while I was seeing to Sir Thomas's boys. Both boys are devastated by their father's death." Wash ducked his head low in guilt as Artimus explained. "When David, the older boy, saw the book, he fell to his knees and told me that his father had brought the book home after his last visit from Saint Foillan's. The two boys said their father changed as he read the pages. Both are young and neither one knew what to do." The dark haired knight shook his head sadly.

"By the way, I scanned the boys. They both carry the Deryni heritage, but Thomas never told them, and I am starting to believe that Thomas had not been aware of his own blood until yesterday."

"Is that even possible?" Wash asked. "How can you be Deryni and not know of it?"

"If a parent or grandparent blocked those thoughts when he was a child, he would never have been able to even consider the possibility. Many parents hid their children that way fifty years ago. Sadly, it can lead to devastating consequences. The more serious question is how did the priests of Saint Foillan know he could make use of a book such as this one. How did they find out he was Deryni and then use that knowledge against us all?" Artimus was angry. "I've only perused this in brief, and what's in here scared the hell out of me. This is a compilation of several ancient scrolls, which describe demons and hellions and the like. At the back are several Deryni spells, including the three Thomas used. The last spell is referred to as the final form of 'Banishment'."

Arty looked his friend over very seriously. "I had not realized the darkness of the spell he had used on you. I was so focused on reducing the fire and saving Jessa that I…. Washburn, this spell was not only meant to kill, but its words are written to entrap its victim's soul in the depths of the underworld. When you vanquished Thomas, the spell should have released you as most dueling spells are meant to do. But this spell was never meant to be used in a duel, it is meant to rid our world of evil. The spell was weakened when Thomas died but its lingering effects still have a hold over you."

Wash stared at the book, suddenly realizing the depth of his own plight. "Is there a counter spell within the text?" asked the Deryni lord.

"No," stated Arty, deeply concerned.

"Entrapment of my soul— My God! That is what it feels like." Wash put one hand out for the book and the other hand pointed to the fire. "We have to burn it! Burn it now! No one should have this power."

Arty pulled the book back from the other's reach, realizing this required more serious attention. "This is more than a collection of old scrolls. I would not want to just burn this in any fire. I can feel magic on the very pages. If we are to free you from this curse, we need the old ways."

"The old rituals died with most of the Deryni, seventy years ago. I know of the warding ceremony, but the rest…." Wash looked at his friend, feeling the gravity of a cold weight upon his essence. He was gradually losing all his senses to the world about him. He had only a faint sense of hunger but without taste or smell, food had a nauseous appeal. The ringing in his ears, which he had ignored all morning, was finally on the verge of driving him mad. Only his concern for the maiden had bolstered him this far. "You know, getting it wrong is more disastrous than not doing it at all."

"Well, doing nothing will certainly lead to a bad ending. I think it is time we talked to Muir. He has knowledge in these things. He will know what to do."

The compline hour had passed, and a small room of the earl's had been opened and aired for the workings. It was a private room of his father's in the eastern tower. Wash could not recall ever being in it before. He briefly looked over a small shelf of books locked behind carved wooden doors; the engraved titles were of Deryni origin. Normally he would have been very interested, but now he could only manage the focus of his eyes for short periods.

He had left Jessa full of worry in Father Pernal's care with Lady Lisa to watch over her. Before she would let her rescuing knight go from her sight, Jessa had removed the medallion from her neck and slipped it over his head. "May Saint Camber protect you and return you to me safely," she had whispered to him, unable to hide her fears behind tattered shields. As he turned away, a stream of tears fell onto her pillow. With all his heart, he wanted to hold her, tell her all would be well. But he did not know what the night might bring. The possibility that she would never see him again was too real. He had turned back, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "Whatever happens, promise me you will be the best Healer this land has seen in generations. Follow your heart and your gifts." With a decisive turn, he left the room. The ringing in his ears drowned out the sounds of her crying. When he reached the hall, his sight dimmed, forcing him to seek the hands of others to guide him away.

Muir, Arty, and Dillon had led Wash to this room. They had all discussed thoroughly what had to be done, but Wash could barely recall what was said. Muir was starting to feel his powers return, and all would have rather waited for the earl's head to clear more, only the spell's effect on the younger brother was worsening with each hour.

Washburn was barely aware of the ancient ritual of warding that began when Dillon walked the four quarters of the room. He swung the thurible three times into each of the compass points; censing first the East where Muir stood then moving around the room to the South, the West, and the North where Wash sat. At each point Dillon invoked the protection of the four great Archangels who guarded the Quarters and ruled the elements. The second pass of the ritual began with Artimus's voice echoing strongly across the tower room. He first aspersed the East with three shakes of the holy water and then he moved onward to the South. Wash focused on the motion of the knight's hands as his hearing became muffled and then was nothing more than an intangible hum. He remembered the three men discussing whether Father Pernal should be included in the ritual. A priest's touch would bring reverence to what they were about to do. Nevertheless, they concluded it was far too much to ask of the man that was only now shifting his views to a more open understanding about Deryni.

Muir followed the circle with a third enchanting; his sword held at mid-height emitted a red ribbon of energy as he passed by each quarter. When the ribbon ends of the circle met, Muir stepped back and motioned for Artimus the complete the Ward. The earl chose to preserve his slowly reviving energy for the ritual yet to come. Lifting his hands outward and up, Artimus called for the four Archangels to protect them. The red ribbon spread both upward and downward, arching around the room in a full sphere of warding.

The buzz in Washburn's hearing cleared as the three men took a breath to confirm the Ward complete.

"Very nice, Arty," Dillon was saying. "This young warrior is impressed."

"I told you I studied more than knighthood in my youth, it's just when do you ever have the need to use the old ways anymore?"

"When ignorance dabbles in ancient ills," Muir lamented. "Time has come for this ill to find a cure." Wash heard the words, but his eyesight had once more blurred. It seemed he could have one sense or the other, but to have both took every ounce of his control. A hand touched his forehead and a wave of concern and energy refocused his attention. Wash blinked to see his older brother's worried look, and heard him say, "It's time. We will make the center warding together. Wash, I will guide you, but you are the one that has to escape this entrapment. Only you alone can complete the final step."

Attempting to lighten the grim faces, Wash retorted, "Well, if I had shown even the remotest interest in learning arcane dueling, rather than all sword play, I would have dropped Thomas into unconsciousness when his game began and not played the fool to his ignorance."

"That is never as easy as the words make it sound, dear brother," Muir said, not amused. "Men in Thomas's condition are very unpredictable and dangerous. He only gave you time for an offensive spell because he thought he had beaten you. There are other spells in that book. He might not have had the energy to use them all, given his lack of training, but he was a fit warrior and these are not dueling spells. This tome should never have been compiled in the first place." Muir pointed angrily at the tome on the center floor.

"It's time. We will make the center warding together." Muir guided Wash to the north side of the four thick candles already set on the floor. Artimus opened the tome to the last written page containing the spell Sir Thomas had cast. Dillon filled a goblet from a pitcher of holy water, a gift from the cathedral, and set it beside the book. Muir moved to the east candle, Dillon to the south, and Artimus to the west. All four men leaned down as one and lifted up the white candles before them, to chest height.

Standing tall at the east side, the high lord's eyes closed and his mind dropped into trance. He began the ritual that would call the powers into play. Even an hour ago, he would not have been able to perform this act. Only now, the last dregs of the merasha had finally departed from his mind. His voice called out clearly in the stillness of the tower room.

"_We stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade, we joined together and are One."_

Centering on the candle, Muir began the ritual verse.

"_I call the mighty Archangel Raphael, the Healer. Light our path and heal our hurts. Justly bind the forces of air. Mayest thy winds be gentle in thy touch. Correct the wrong and guide this man in need."_

His hands passed over the candle and it flared upward in a brilliant gold flame.

All eyes turned to the south. Dillon placed his hand palm down over his unlit candle. His voice fluctuating as he pronounced the old verse,

"_I call the mighty Archangel Michael, the Defender, Keeper of the gates of Eden. Justly bind the forces of fire. As the fiery sword guards the Lord of Heaven, may thou lend thy strength. Right the wrong and protect this man in need."_

Dillon's hands rose upward, leaving a deep red flame shimmering on the wick of the candle.

Staring at the red flame across the space, the periphery of Wash's sight faded to black. For a long moment, all he saw was a dancing shimmer. He heard Artimus's next words, but they were shrouded and hollow, as if he stood in a distant cavern, one that he had become lost within.

"_I call the mighty Archangel Gabriel, The Herald, who didst bring glad tidings to Our Blessed Lady. Justly bind the forces of water. Through water at its purest, mayest thou light the path with thy wisdom. Cure the wrong and lend knowledge to this man in need."_

A blue flame shone in the black of Washburn's right periphery. He forced himself to breathe, for he realized he had not done so for many seconds. His sight cleared a little. He focused his mind on the unlit candle in his hands.

"_I call the mighty Archangel Uriel, Angel of Death,"_

Washburn's voice quivered before he found strength to continue.

"_He who bringest all souls at last to the Nether shore. Justly bind the forces of earth. As the land holds life and death in balance, mayest thou stay thy hand and restore the gift of life. Humbly, I ask thy to not take this life. Only take the wrong and leave the man, for I am the man in need, and I require your mercy." _

The candle flared pure white. The brilliance of the white light filled the whole of the room to its corners before that brightness of the candle's flame faded to the intended green. Wash blinked several times and took in more breaths. The seizure of blindness passed him by.

The flames of the four candles rose high, free of any smoke or scent. Muir reached across to his brother, gripping his shoulder firmly. As he did he called out the final words of the ancient ritual of warding.

"_May Air, Fire, Water, Earth— and the Spirit come together in this time and this place to cast out twilight's grasp and free the unjustly condemned."_

The colors of the flames broadcasted their light to form an extended arch that shimmered upward to the height of a man in the center of the room.

Muir picked up is sword and swept the tip across the ward, opening a gate for a man to pass through. Three concerned faces looked across to the man in need.

"You think I can pass this test?" Washburn asked, feeling the foreboding possibility of failure.

"You must pass. I have no doubts and you must have none either," Muir responded with conviction. "Washburn Cynfyn, you are a good man. The weight on your soul is not your sin. Believe in the light. Tell me you can defeat this darkness."

Envisioning the light, the image of the golden- haired healer gave him strength. The Deryni knight centered his mind and calmed his muscles. "I can do this!" he announced as he stepped bravely forward and through the gate. He felt Muir close the warding behind him. He would have to make this battle on his own. The energy would harm others if they became involved.

Attired only in a black robe with the red stag of Cynfyn on his breast, Wash knelt down beside the evil tome. He was here without armor or weapon to defend himself; as a warrior, he felt naked. Even the rings on his hands were gone, having been placed aside or given to another. With a nervous motion, his hand pulled the medallion from his robe. He brought it to his lips. "Saint Camber, if you can hear me, defend the girl who has your heart. Defend her from all forms of evil."

Washburn forcefully cleared his thoughts, desperate to say the words before he lost all his rationality. He lifted up the goblet filled with holy water. He poured some across each hand, forcefully steadying the tremor in his fingers. With a fervid tone, feeling anxious and alone, Washburn recited his plea to the heavens, slowly pouring the water across his brow.

"_I am a man in need. From the powers of the heavens above, I ask for guidance, protection, wisdom, and an honorable death, but mostly, I ask for life. Life cleansed of this curse that has befallen me. Judge the essence of my being, and if thou find me unworthy, then take from me this life. It is my gift. But if you judge me deserving, then take from me this evil, and free my life from this dishonorable end. To my Lord for this I pray." _

Wash placed the empty goblet beside him and lifted his hands out palms up, requesting benevolence from the Spirit. A purple haze began to froth around his fingers. The evil energy from the banishing spell awoke from its slumber, threatening to consume the knight's hands. It bubbled in a swirling cloud, growing and moving, claiming the victim that had already been chosen. Washburn's hearing rang in sudden deafness and his sight went black. He teetered on his knees, uncomprehending. Desperately, he grabbed the medallion at his neck. "_Light my path, and have mercy on my soul." _

A white light emitted from his closed hand and pushed his fingers open. The medallion glowed with brilliance and warmth. The light surged outward and pushed back the devouring haze. A presence that no other saw enveloped the man in need. With eyes opened wide, Washburn dropped his inner shielding, allowing an energy to surge through his mind. His past deeds were viewed and his past deeds were judged. Suddenly, a brilliant light filled the inner ward, pushing the banishing haze back into the words on the open page of the tome. As the last of the purple cloud left Washburn's fingers, with one swift cast, he ignited the parchment with a spell of burning. The old pages of the book curled over from the heat of the flame. When the fire caught the ink of the spell written there, black points of energy swirled off the letters reaching outward to ensnare the flames.

In a dazed state, Wash crawled away from the book. Behind him, voices called, and he turned to see an open gate in the ward. Muir was yelling, "Come away, now!" Wash stumbled too weak to stand. Half-crawling, he pushed his way to the gate. Several hands grabbed his arms and pulled him beyond the ward. When he was clear, Wash forced his body to turn to be certain that Muir had closed the warding behind him. Assured, he collapsed into the hands that gave him support.

As the book burned inside the ward, a maelstrom of black and purple energy arched to battle the flames. It thickened and blackened, stirring faster to gain victory. The complete inner warding became a black sphere, not unlike the sphere of Washburn's encasement. Having experience that devouring orb from within, Wash felt his fear return. With it, the chill in his bones dissipated. An amazed sense of warmth filled his body.

As all four men watched, the glow of the fire illuminated the black orb from within. The orb pulsated from black to purple, then to black again; it fought the inner fire that burned ever hotter. With each pulsation, the sphere compressed inward, getting smaller and denser. When the size condensed to a mere two feet in diameter, the pulsation stopped. It stayed static for a heartbeat, and then the holy inner fire exploded through the shell. The searing flame devoured the entire black orb. In an instant, all was burnt to ash and then gone. All that remained was the shining red warding. There was nothing inside.

"Banishment!" was the only word that echoed through the room.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 - WIC 11.12.985 4th Coin**

The sound of a door gently closing stirred Sir Washburn from sleep. He awoke in the solar of his apartment, lying on the hard bench with his back to the low-burning fire in the hearth. The stiffness in his back was confirmation enough that he had survived the prior night's ordeal. At least his head rested on a pillow. Wistfully, in the dim fire's glow, he mused that he should ask the chambermaids to supply him with more cushions. It had not occurred to him to ask for such an extravagance before now.

He thought back on the conclusion of the night before. It was with great relief that his head ceased its pounding behind his eyes and his limbs thawed from their icy state. He had offered to help dissipate the wards, only to get an adamant "No" from all three men. Artimus made certain Wash's palm was cleanly bandaged before Muir guided him back to his apartment. Muir bade his brother to warm himself before the hearth in his solar while he retrieved some items from his already occupied bedroom. Wash sank down on the bench in a state of complete exhaustion. In a handful of breaths, he succumbed to sleep. Muir must have let him be. Awaking in the dark, Wash mused upon how good it felt just to be warm.

Hunger grumbled in his belly. What was the hour? The only light came from the hearth. It was enough to see the table with a platter of bread and cheese. It took him mere moments to eat the remnants down. He followed the bread with a glass of watered wine. The wine warmed his insides, and he smiled with delight. The smallest needs of everyday life were too often overlooked. Just to be warm and to eat gave a sense of joy.

The tall knight in the long black tunic stood and walked over to the south windowed alcove. He pulled back the heavy curtains and let the new dawn illuminate his body and mind. There was a feeling of rebirth in the beginnings of this new day. He opened the paned glass and enjoyed feeling the breeze brush against his face; he relished a deep intake of cool air. The forest scent was a fresh mix of spruce, pine and honey-sweet hawthorn. Lord, it was good to be alive!

Stepping back inside, he realized he had time before Robby came to inquire on his needs. His own morning routine was simple and he could take care of himself. He stepped up to the bedroom door. For a moment, his hand hesitated on the latch. Concern for the injured woman in his room brought him up short. He had not seen her since the evening before. What if her illness had worsened in the night? Had Pernal's medicine been enough to diminish her pains? Gathering his courage, he quietly opened the door and glanced inside. The expected maid was not to be seen. Deeply concerned that Jessa had been left alone, he walked to the side of the bed and touched her hand. At the barest touch, the lady opened her swollen eyes and smiled a weak, innocent smile. Her eyes followed him as he sat in the chair at her side.

"My shining black knight is safe," Jessa whispered, her voice raspy. "Last night, Lord Muir told me that you would be well, but no one would let me leave this bed to see you." Her brow was creased from strain, her eyes were barely open, and her body quivered with tenseness from the need to endure that which she had not the strength to relieve.

"And well they should not, my lady," Washburn replied. His hands covered her eyes and his mind reached out and brushed up against shields that were firmly in place. For him, she dropped them, and their rapport deepened. Within moments, the muscles across Jessa's face eased and her body relaxed as the pain was pushed down to a tolerable level. Wash's fingers caressed her face. He leaned closer and intimately whispered, "Please forgive me for not coming to you sooner. I, myself, was unwell, but that is resolved. From this moment forward, I am forever at your service." Gently, his lips brushed her forehead with concern.

She reached out and touched the stubble on his cheek; a smile parted her lips. "You risked everything for me; I owe you my life," she whispered into his ear.

"Perhaps when you are healed, we can speak of the balance of debt I still owe you," Wash replied as he leaned back to take her fully into his view. "Please, tell me how I can help. Can you find the focus? All my energy is at your disposal to use."

She nodded, looking down at her left hand. "As a child, I would have died in a fire with my father. I always thought I should have died in that flame. From then on, that thought filled me with terror. On that pyre, I saw my life come to a full circle. Oddly, in that confused delirium, all I wanted was to live. When I saw your face over the flames, I wanted nothing so much in the world as to sense your touch." Jessa's hand squeezed his hand tightly. "You have given that to me. I should not ask for more, but I will need your balance to give healing a try." She looked across at him, meeting his gaze. "Come, hold me close. I still have moments of dizziness."

As Wash climbed up on the bed, he lifted the chain with the silver medal up over his head. "This saved me when my own strength was not enough." He held the medallion between them. "I cannot even begin to understand the miracle that encompasses Saint Camber, but I will not deny the greater power of his essence." He placed the chain around Jessa's neck and gently helped her pull her hair free. Easily, he pulled her closer to rest her head against his shoulder and her back against his chest. Protectively, he enclosed her shoulders in his arms and his hands rested caressingly around her wrists. In response to his touch, she raised the medallion high for both of them to see, and then gazed into the gleaming silver to center her focus. His strong mind was with her, supporting her at every level. With his energy, the center for healing was not near as difficult to reach as Jessa had first imagined. As she focused her healing gift on her own breathing, the pair became aware of the pale hands that encased both of theirs. Washburn was enthralled by the Saint's presence. An essence of warmth emanated from that spiritual light.

Lungs mended quickly. At last, Jessa took in a deep breath. She then turned her focus to the burns on her face and legs. She pulled much energy from the Knight Captain, but he seemed amenable to its usage. He held her closer and willed her to heal. From the gift of his energy, her healing began and completed. Saint Camber's aspect smiled and then faded away. The man and woman held tight to each other. Here was pure joy, the kind that life was meant to share.

As her vitality was replenished with her own healing, Jessa unwrapped the bandage about his hand. She enclosed his hand within both of hers, and a warm tingle caressed his palm. When she lifted her hands away, his cut was gone. She kissed his hand and snuggled comfortably in his arms.

Finally free of the devastating effects of fire, Wash wanted Jessa to find freedom from the mental entrapment of her past. He broached her fear of fire, wanting to rid her of that terror. At first, she resisted, a frigid fear shutting down her shields. He did not recoil at the closure. He encircled her shields with tranquility and protectively waited for her to recover. In a wave of trust and relief, she reestablished their rapport. She imparted to him all that had occurred in her childhood: the engulfing fire of her family home, her father's death from the falling roof, the two murdering peasants that stole her away, and then their deaths in a distant tavern in the mountains.

Sir Washburn let the images and experiences of the whole of it rush over him in full passion and despair. He held her close, letting her share her fears; then, one by one, he helped her deal with the long delayed grief and swept the fears of the past away. When they finally came forward to the events of the last day, it was much easier to understand the fears that had touched both their hearts. Both had felt terror for the loss of the other.

Washburn kissed the tears from Jessa's soft cheeks. She leaned into him, her lips up to his. They kissed; the sheer sensation of joy enveloped both their hearts with desire. His fingers brushed along her face; his touch passed along the curve of her neck, massaging a knot in her shoulder. The cool sensation of the silver chain enticed his hand to seek the medallion that had slipped under the neckline of her shift. His fingers touched the medal and his mind recalled the engraved words placed upon it.

With a deep, sudden gasp, he realized he had no rights here; they were passing beyond the moral codes of decorum. "No! No, this is not the way," he said with a cry of shame. He pulled his hands away from her warm curves, leaving the maiden breathless against the pillows. He left her side and turned away from her, his mind in torment. It was a long moment before he dared to turn around and face the woman of his dreams.

"My lord, are you all right? Have I offended you?" The maiden's voice quivered. "I…I love you my lord— I willingly give you all that I am." She told him this from the depths of her soul, the soul she would hand to him unconditionally.

"I mean to marry you, my lady," he said, catching his breath. "My actions just now are dishonorable and unknightly. I should not treat you so poorly." He stood ten feet away, yet he could not maintain his distance. Slowly he came back and sat in the chair at her side.

"I would rather be treated poorly by a kind man, the one kind man that I love, than live a cold existence near those that I know to have cruelty in their hearts. I beg of you, my lord, please do not send me back to the convent." Timidly, she reached out to him, pleading. "My lord, I am aware of your duties to your family and liege lord. I would never ask you to break such an allegiance. That is the best of what makes you who you are." She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, in shame. "I do not know the why of it, but Lord Muir was insistent that I return to the convent. Does he object to me because I am a simple orphan girl with no family lands or dowry to give you in marriage? If he considers me too low born to wed an earl's son, than I can forgo marriage." Regret sounded in her voice. "Oh please, my lord, if you grant me nothing more than the protection of your house from the intolerance of the outside world, I could live contentedly as a servant in your cellars! Please do not send me away."

Wash sucked in his breath, feeling the emotional pain and determination she held within the suggestion of her words. Only now he knew there was a chance to have what they both truly desired. "Love of mine, you don't see it, do you?" He took her hand and smiled at the knowledge he had gained only minutes before. "I'm beginning to understand who you are."

Her look questioned his words, but her response was abandoned as a woman's voice echoed from the solar in the next room. Both of them were brought to attention with a start. Wash jumped up from the chair and raced to stand at the hearth a good twenty feet from the side of the bed. Jessa grabbed the bed covers and pulled them to her eyes, feigning the illness she had only just recovered from.

Lady Lisa opened the door and gasped at the sight of Sir Washburn in the room. "My lord, you should not be in here. Where is the maid who I left to watch Jessa for the night?"

"That is my very question, as well," the knight proclaimed. "I woke in the front room not very long ago, and when I came to check on Sister Jessa, I found she had been left alone. This is unfathomable. Someone needs to be with her at all times. Is that order not clear to you?"

"Yes, my lord," the lady stammered and bowed, stating her fervent apologies. "It will not happen again, my lord."

"I am certain that you will see that it does not." Washburn said more calmly. The Deryni lord looked back across to the fragile maiden under the covers. He turned to mind speech before he forced himself to leave the room. _"Sleep now and rest. When you have recovered from the fatigue, I have many questions to ask you about your father. Can you tell me his name?"_

"_My father? He was Baron Jacuth Keryell. I don't understand,"_ she responded.

Lady Lisa was already at the maiden's side feeling for the pulse in her wrist. "Much better than yesterday. Is the pain easing?"

"I can tolerate it better than I could before," Jessa whispered, realizing she had to do more to hide her healing. Wash saw her duck her head fully under the covers. He held their rapport as she rubbed her eyes beneath the blanket and purposely willed blood to flush her face.

Lisa turned toward Sir Washburn upset. "My lord, you're upsetting her, I think you should go. No woman wants to be seen in this condition."

"As you say," he replied to Jessa's new to Jessa he said,_ "Perhaps Father Pernal can help you disguise you're Healing. I believe he will understand the necessity. Get your rest, my love. I will return soon."_

It was almost with regret that Washburn let Robby shave the stubble off his face, giving him once more the clean look of a neat mustache and goatee. His thoughts kept wandering to the gentle fingers that stroked his chin. His heart had soared when she had given him her father's name. Her father was a baron. His suspicions were confirmed that she was of the nobility. Steward Ohlin kept tax records of Lendour's noble houses; listing the tariffs collected from each estate. As a landed nobleman, Baron Keryell should be listed in the tax records of twelve years ago.

Robby was just neatening the black tunic under his white leather belt, when the door to the guest room Wash was using opened. The page Wash had sent on a quest stepped in the room. "Father Pernal is here, my lord."

"Ah, good, you found him?" Wash turned toward the door dismissing his squire and the page with a nod.

"He did indeed find me. If you had come to morning service with the earl and the countess you would have found me, as well," the Father admonished.

"I promise to attend this afternoon," Wash replied. "After the last two days, I could use a little penance. You can take me in task then, I promise. This morning, I need you here for Jessa's sake. I have hope you will help her in her need." It took only a small amount of explaining to have Father Pernal agree to help Jessa hide her healing from the castle servants. The good father fully understood the need to keep her secret safe.

With the physician returning to Jessa's side, Wash sent the page on another quest to have Steward Ohlin meet him in the earl's library. After he meet Ohlin there, they discovered it was somewhat of a chore to find the tax records of twelve years ago. Apparently, the books had been reviewed before and they had not been replaced to where they belonged. At least this time Ohlin was up to the challenge in finding the lost records. When they found them on the wrong shelf for the year 976 instead of 973, Washburn was not surprised. A red ribbon even marked the page where the Keryell family name of the weapon smiths was listed. The annual tariff of the crafter's house was there. Listed below that were the names of two men of the same surname who had been granted the accolade. However, both men remained landless knights, and neither had rose to the nobility of baron, nor had either of them the given name of Jacuth

If someone else had done this research before and they had not found the answer, then there was something missing or wrong in the facts that he had. Once more, he reviewed all the imagery that Jessa had shared with him about her father. Something familiar nagged at him, but he was at a loss to say why. Baron Keryell had an estate on the Molling River. He was thought to be human, but in fact, he hid his Deryni heritage. Very few Deryni families were lawfully allowed land due to the Statutes of Ramos. As a child, Jessa recalled being presented to the king. King Uthyr had praised her father's healing abilities, proving he knew Jacuth to be Deryni and therefore he had purposely defied the Statutes by giving him choice land.

Sir Washburn had lived many years at the royal court of Rhemuth. He had been the King's squire from the age of eleven. A part of his duties was to know all of the nobility that passed within the castle halls. So why did he not know a Baron Keryell? "Ohlin, what are we missing? Why can I not find this Baron Jacuth Keryell?" With the name said aloud there was a strange resonance in the sound, a sound almost familiar. "Baron Jacuth Keryell," he repeated, listening to the overall sound. He knew the name, but it was not quite as it should be.

A sudden recollection highlighted a memory of a man within the delegation from Tralia. The Hort of Orsal had sent a physician with high recommendations. In a wave of astonishment, Wash finally knew he had personally met Jessa's father. He abandoned the tax book and asked his steward for the book of heraldry of the Kingdom's noble houses. Quickly, he turned the pages to the Duchy of Haldane. His eyes followed his fingers through several pages. Near the end were the more recent additions of foreign nobles moving into the realm. Here he found a single entry with a different spelling for the surname of Jessa's father.

Victory at last! Grasping Ohlin on the shoulder, Washburn grinned happily. "We have it. I thank you, my good man. You have helped me in obtaining my future. I have my proof." Wash carried the book out to the main office and placed the book open in the center of the Earl's desk. Confidently, he returned to his apartment, anticipating the joy of sharing this knowledge.

Robby met him at his door, instantly warning him about the confrontation going on inside. It seemed that a nun from the convent had arrived to insist that Sister Jessa be returned to her home. Lady Lisa was standing firmly at the closed bedroom door, adamant that the novice was too badly injured to be moved. Silently, Wash applauded the Lady Lisa's tenacity. She was not giving in an inch to the old nun standing angrily before her.

"Lady Lisa, Sister…. I am Lord Washburn Cynfyn, and I must remind you to keep your voices low. The maiden within is injured, and she should not be disturbed by the irritation of your raised tones." Thus admonished, both women ducted their heads low and curtsied. "Please inform me as to what is the problem."

Lady Lisa spoke quickly before the nun could respond. "My lord. Let me introduce you to Sister Isabel. She is from the convent of Saint Clair. She carries a letter from the Reverend Mother insisting that Sister Jessa be returned to the convent. My Lord Washburn, please inform her that Sister Jessa is in no condition to travel. Sister Isabel will not hear the words that I am telling her. She dishonors the integrity of this house, if she distrusts the truth of Jessa's injuries."

Wash feigned shock from the insult. He turned his stern glare toward the nun. "Sister Isabel, I want to welcome you openly into the House of Cynfyn, but I will not gainsay Lady Lisa's words. If you reject them than you do give offense to the lady. If so, I will not honor the Reverend Mother's request, even with a reply. How do you say?"

The nun quelled under his gaze. "I pray you, my lord, please. I do not intend offense. The novice is sorely missed and we all would like to see her returned to her home. My heart breaks if she is injured, as Lady Lisa has proclaimed."

Wash nodded, accepting the nun's ignorance in the matter. "It grieves my heart to tell you, but you have been informed truthfully. Two nights ago, there was a bad fire in the castle. A man died during that fire and Sister Jessa was caught in the flames. She sustained severe burns. We would not dare to consider moving her until she has fully recovered from this ordeal."

The black clad nun in the heavy white wimple creased her eyes at the nobleman. "My lord Washburn, Sister Jessa is a valued member of the Church. If her condition is as serious as you have told me, then I must insist that I see her. I feel the convent should be responsible for her treatment."

"Indeed, Father Pernal, our infirmarian, has the maiden's care well in hand. I believe he may yet be within redressing her wounds. I see no harm in letting you see her. Come, please, see for yourself that the novice is well attended." Washburn pushed the door inward and stepped into the dark room. The curtains in the room had been drawn closed, the hearth was burning warmly, a chambermaid sat opposite and Father Pernal finished wrapping a linen strip over Jessa's right ear and cheek.

"You must desist all that noise," the priest admonished. "Can you not see the poor child needs quiet to rest?" Jessa lay under the covers, just as she had in the predawn hours: her eyes swollen to slits, bandages covering where she had been burned, and her breathing shallow and slow. If Wash had not known that the maiden had already healed herself, he would truly believe that she was still very ill.

Sister Isabel gasped at the sight of the novice. She stood at the bedside and said her prayers. Wash watched the others around the room and realized they all still trusted what they saw. With Father Pernal's assistance, Jessa had succeeded in maintaining the belief of her continued injury.

With calm quiet words, Father Pernal, pulled the nun aside and spent several minutes discussing Jessa's condition. When Sister Isabel appeared to settle in for the duration, it was Jessa who weakly took the nun's hand and thanked her for coming. In a confused delirium, Jessa called her Sister Vivian, stating that no other could bring her the comfort that their friendship wrought. In sympathy, the nun retired from the room, stating that she would inform the Reverend Mother and request that Sister Vivian attend Jessa the following day.

In the calm afternoon, Washburn attended service as he said he would. Then he returned to the library to seek out more answers. The hour was very late when he silently returned to his solar unnoticed and unannounced. He needed to talk with Jessa, and he needed to have that talk in private. Aware that being here at all would be construed as improper, he stood silently before the closed door. Using mind speech, he called to the maiden lying in bed on the other side of the door. _"Jessa, can you assure me that the lady is asleep?"_

"_Just a moment, my lord," _echoed a soft voice. A minute passed and then she stated, _"You may enter." _

He opened the door quietly. In the chair next to the bed sat the chambermaid sleeping. Jessa held her hand over the woman's wrist, her eyes unfocused, assuring herself that the woman would stay asleep. Even so, neither of them was willing to trust sound that might filter into her dreams.

"_Are you all right with the strain of all this?"_ he asked. _"I am sorry that you must continue to endure in this manner, but it seems a wise decision to continue feigning your illness."_

"_Much can be hidden under bandages, my lord," _Jessa replied with a light smile half hidden behind a dressing of linen on her right cheek. _"Truly, I did not think it would come to this when I hid my healing from Lady Lisa this morning. Apparently, no one here has yet guessed that I am Deryni. I did not think I had kept my secret this well" _

Wash came to her side and began to unwrap the linen under her chin. "_The non Deryni residents expect you to be a caregiver from the convent. They think of you as a woman who has gained Lady Melina's trust and my love. Few know the truth of your miracles and very few know the real reason Sir Thomas went mad. Most believe Sir Thomas was seduced by the abbey to poison the Deryni earl and to kill his Deryni brother. You were just a means for him to challenge me." _

The maiden ducked away in shame. _"Yet, the truth was the opposite; he thought killing me would save you. I am to blame…"_

"No, my lady—" Wash blurted out before he remember to be silent. _"Have you lain here all day blaming yourself? Do not! The bad choices he made after you saved his life had nothing to do with you."_

In the silence he finished unwrapping the bandage over her face. _"There,_ _much better."_ His fingers touched flawless skin and then he touched the broken bits of burnt hair over her brow and right ear. _"This will grow out in time."_

Hiding the guilt that could not be assuaged so easily, she replied, "_At least my hair was plaited at my back and most of it did not catch on the flame." _She began trembling from the memory.

He enfolded her in his arms and held her until the trembling eased. _"Time to get you out of this bed," _he declared. _"I brought you a gown from Melina's wardrobe. If you care to dress and join me in the solar, we can talk more openly there."_ He laid a green velvet gown on her lap and a soft white veil beside it. He left the room before he was tempted to help her dress. In the main room, he pulled all the curtains closed and then passed his hand over the hearth. It instantly brightened the space. He poured two goblets of wine and then waited for only a few minutes more before she entered. There was a smile on her lips and a swirl of the rich fabric around her perfect bare feet.

"Thank you for this," she said, fingering the gown.

"Indeed, my beloved. I can see you have been feeling a bit confined." He teased her. "If you remove all the bandaging, you know we will just have to put them back on later."

"Yes," She flirted innocently; dancing a free step and watching the fabric shimmer in the firelight.

He motioned for her to sit on the bench before the fire. He passed her the wine as she settled herself beside him. "Sister Vivian should arrive tomorrow. I trust you will be able to inform her of the true events, and she will be able to help you with this charade?"

"Yes, my lord that is my hope." She gave him all her trust as she sipped the fragrant wine. Relieved that the goblet held nothing but wine, she took a deeper taste and let that memory slip away.

"I would like to talk about your father. Are you willing?" He waited for her to nod before he informed her of what he had found. "I have reviewed the records and gone through my memories. I now recall the day when your father was first introduced to the Court of Rhemuth. He came with the Tralian delegation and he was introduced to the King as Baron Jacuth Kyriell." He pronounced the proper name slowly. "Do you hear the difference? Jacuth Kyriell, not Jacuth Keryell." Washburn watched Jessa make her own pronunciation of the two names; a shock of recognition shone in her eyes.

Wash's mind went back to a time of his youth. "It was my first year as squire to the King. I was the only known Deryni squired in the midst of the human king's court, treading the insecure politics of our race. My father was there that day, and after the pageantry of court, he pulled me aside to impress upon his youngest son the hardships of the High Deryni families of decades past. He emphasized that we should never forget the price so many others had paid. He told me a story in secret, one I was never to repeat. But this secret is also yours, and you should hear it." Jessa sat forward, her grey eyes following him with rapt attention.

"My father disclosed to me that the new physician from Tralia was a Deryni Healer, one of the best in the Eleven Kingdoms. The king would have nothing less. King Uthyr had made an accord with the Hort of Orsal, requesting the Healer to come to Gwynedd to stave off his the pains from his old war injuries. Baron Jacuth Kyriell was given lands in Gwynedd in accordance to the agreement. But before he could come to Gwynedd with his family, he had to hide his Deryni identity and drop the last name of his forefathers. A name, which was and is still today, outlawed in Gwynedd. My father told me that name. Do you recall your father telling you his true surname?"

She looked up at him confused. "You just told me it was Kyriell."

He placed his hand over hers, reassuringly. "Your father's birth name was Thuryn, Jacuth Kyriell Thuryn." Wash looked away for a moment, remembering. "If I recall my father's words correctly, he said that Jacuth was the son of a powerful Healer, named Tieg Thuryn, who had died in the service of King Owain of Gwynedd two decades before. Without the protection of their parents, the Deryni children of Lord Thuryn were separated, with some to be raised beyond Gwynedd's borders." His face lit with victory as his eyes saw recognition in her features. "Yes, you recognize your grandfather's name, don't you?" The goblet was shaking in her hand, when he gently took it from her fingers.

"A week ago, you asked me to learn more about Sanctus Camberus. Although the references for him in the prayer books are very different from the stories my mother once told, I found the mention of a second name alongside the name of Camber MacRorie, a name that should not surprise you. The name was Lord Rhys Thuryn. If we were in Rhemuth, I know I could research the history of this man, but here in Lendour, I can find very little information. What I know is that the name of Thuryn is somehow intertwined with Camber. You are a Thuryn, and somehow Saint Camber is intertwined with you."

He lifted the medallion on the chain around her neck. Mystified, both of them stared at the medal held between them. Her Saint had always been so close and warm. What was the connection between herself and Saint Camber's life-force? Wash felt her questions and could not immediately answer them. Instead, he held her hands firmly within his. "I want to learn as you learn the answers to your questions. I could never send you back to the convent, no more than I could treat you as a mistress." Her trembling increased, only this time it was not from guilt or fear. "Jessamyn Kyriell Thuryn, there is no obstacle left between us. We are of equal nobility. I love you, my lady. Given this new knowledge, will you still consent to be my wife?"

Tears dampened her cheeks. She could barely contain her joy. "Yes, my Lord Washburn, forever yes."

Lord Washburn laughed at their victory. He pulled her close, conscious of her warm figure. "I apologize for my lapse this morning. I promise I will not bring on scandal with our dreams so close to being fulfilled. I would not want any family you have remaining to find fault with me now. If I treated you poorly before, I beg forgiveness. If I treat you poorly ever again, then your family has every right to take my head from my shoulders and serve it on a platter to my brother." Wash half-joked with a smile as he said this, but then that smile twisted and deepened until his visage was filled with concern.

"Oh my!" His frown deepened. "I had forgotten about your mother…"


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15 - WIC 11.12.985 4th Coin**

"What!" Muir exclaimed. The earl stood, sleep deprived, behind his office desk in the middle of the night. Wash and Jessa had summoned him here at this horrid hour to help deal with the sudden problem the truth had exposed. "You want to join my house to the royal house of Tralia? Are you mad?" His shields were closed and his stance was rigid. "If what you say is true, then Jessa, you are the daughter of Elzia von Horthy. In case you were too young to know your mother's title, Lady Elzia is a younger sister to the Sovereign Prince of Tralia, the very Hort of Orsal himself. Your mother is a princess; she is very much alive and living within Castle Orsalis on the Isle of Orsal."

The earl took a steadying breath, his eyes shooting angrily from one to the other, waiting for their response. Neither of the pair before him flinched. They stood tall, uncompromised, waiting for him to run through his tirade. Apparently, they had already discussed the consequences of this knowledge between them, and they were just waiting for the earl to come to the same conclusions as they had. The earl had his own ideas of what they should do. "The only course of action you have, Sir Washburn Cynfyn, is to send the Hort of Orsal's niece off with full escort to her mother's homeland. The only place for her is with her family."

Washburn waited in silence, letting his brother catch his composure. "Yes, my lord," the calm Knight Captain said at last, "in this you may be right. However, the lives of five Deryni nuns become at risk if we send Jessa away. Yesterday you asked me to make plans to see them freed. The plans I have made involve my marriage to Jessa. If I send her home, we will lose our best chance of rescuing those women from harm."

The earl shook his head, still unable to reconcile the political consequences. "If your plans hinge on your marriage to Jessa, then you will need to first concentrate on gaining consent. Both of you need to understand me in this! My consent alone is no longer good enough. The Kingdoms of Gwynedd and Tralia have no quarrel between them, but if you do not gain consent from both royal houses then you will begin ill feelings that would be hard to reconcile later!" The earl leaned heavily against his desk. "If Jessa's mother denies your request, then there is nothing I can do." The earl's gaze was stern as he watched his brother. His eyes softened as he turned to Jessa. Her recovery from her recent ordeal was amazing. Small hints of shortened hair shone under her veil, but little else of the physical damage remained. Tonight, she was a healthy young woman with hope in her eyes. He felt awful that he might be dashing her hopes away.

"The honorable thing would be to send her home and then petition for her hand over the next year." Muir had to smile at the displeasure that fell across both faces that watched him. "Another choice would be to marry my ward in a small ceremony and keep your knowledge of Jessa's true origins secret forever. I'm sure you both have considered that. However, as head of this house, I will not allow you that choice. It would be a lie you would have to pass down to your children. Lady Jessa, I presume you do wish to share the joy of your future children with your true mother?"

"Yes, of course, with all my heart! It is a lifelong dream to discover my mother alive and have her hold me in her arms," said the young woman, standing resolute. "However, that is not all that is being held in the balance. I will not jeopardize the lives of the nuns at the convent. Your aunt, Sister Meris, was like a mother to me as well." The maiden looked away with pain in her eyes. "I will not abandon her. This morning, I was willing to settle for a simple match of love. Now, there are certain things that are within my grasp. If I can gain them, I want all three of my dreams to come true; my mother Elzia knowing I am alive; my foster mother, Sister Meris, free of the cloister, able to share her warm heart; and my future husband, Lord Washburn Cynfyn, taking my hand in his before the altar. Can we not find a way to make it possible for all three of my desires to come true?"

With respect, both men watched the young woman blossom with new strength. Having survived the test of fire twice in her young life, she was no longer intimidated by her own doubts and fears. Was it possible to give her everything that she desired?

"Very well, then we must concentrate on winning your mother's consent," stated Lord Muir, considering his brother's attributes. "Lord Washburn is the second son of an earl of a respected Deryni family. Your mother should consider him a worthy match. He has lands inherited from our mother, which earn a moderate income. The land is just south of Cynfyn and has several vineyards, a winery and a manor house overlooking the valley. Although, I do not believe the manor has been in use for some years. With Wash's position as Knight Captain of the Lendour armies, he is at the command of the king. He often attends court at Rhemuth where both he and I are on the royal council. This should please your mother.

"It is unfortunate that the dowry I had set aside for you is a pittance of what I know it should be. However…." Muir paused to think. "Wash, you would not object to me improving your manor? The west wing could be doubled in size and built to suit a growing family."

"I have no objections to that," Wash stated. "It will mean we will have to stay in residence here until the work is complete, which is probably best for both of us for the time being."

"Good." Muir nodded in agreement. "Jessa there is one thing, you must not ask for a dowry from your mother. In addition, do not accept any gifts from Tralia at this time. It will look better if you maintain your loyalties to Gwynedd. When your children are born, only then can gifts from your mother's house be bestowed directly to them." Lord Muir was quite serious in his tone.

"Have you considered what you will write to your mother? Can you find the right words to prove to her that you are her lost daughter and that you love the Knight Captain who desires to make you his wife?"

Jessa watched both men for a moment, uncertain how her request would be received. Bolstering her strength, she answered the earl. "My Lord Muir, I am wondering if magic can be used here. I have very little experience in Deryni ways; do you know if there is a means to express my experiences and feelings in more than just words? Can I share with my mother everything that has befallen me since that horrible day of my childhood? If she experiences the truth, then I know she would not refuse my hand in marriage. She would welcome the man who I healed and who has saved me in return."

Muir looked across at the novice Deryni with approval. "What a splendid idea! I would not have thought of it, but I believe I know of such a means." Muir fumbled for his keys and stepped back to the door behind his desk. In his library, he found what he needed. When he came back, Wash had Jessa in his arms and he was hugging her close. "Hrrm…." Muir cleared his throat, and the two people smiled innocently back at him.

The earl stepped forward, handing each of them two large silver coins with the Cynfyn emblem embossed on one side of each. "Washburn can show you the spell required to bestow your experiences within the coin. You can share an event in full or in part. However, do not lie. The reader can decipher even the smallest lie, and you would lose their trust. You have time to set your memories down in proper order. Both of you will need to share what has brought you together." Giving them a sudden side glance, the Earl gave them a wry smile. "Can I trust that nothing dishonorable has passed between you, nothing that cannot be shared?"

Washburn touched Jessa's face as he replied, "Very near did we come, but nothing of dishonor has occurred that I would not be willing to share."

"Very good. When the coins are ready, I will have Sir Paulson and Sir Ronald carry them with my letter to Tralia. Hopefully, they will return with a positive reply." Muir sat back against the edge of his desk. "It is late and there is still much more that needs to be discussed. Your wedding will need to be a proper occasion, one witnessed before all of Lendour in the Cathedral, with Bishop Michael presiding. I will talk to the Bishop in the morning. You said that Father Pernal has already forwarded your letter requesting dispensation from your vows? Good, I will remind him to review it and see that he does not inform the Abbess of your request. We do not want her to be aware of our plans too soon.

"The Bishop will require one more consent. You must gain acceptance from the King. Wash, you have earned King Cluim's favor at the Battle of Rengarth. I think it best if you write your request to him directly. I do not think anything elaborate will be required to earn the King's consent."

Washburn nodded in agreement. "With the proper tone, I believe I can gain King Cluim's consent," he stated. "However, we dare not remind him of Jessa's true family identity. The name of Thuryn is still outlawed in our Kingdom. I do not think a Haldane would condemn her for that surname; however, there are many who would. The deception Sir Jacuth Kyriell used when he came to Gwynedd fifteen years ago will need to be maintained."

"I agree," the earl stated.

"Yes, absolutely," Jessa said with agreement. With both men's eyes upon her, Jessa's eyes sparkled with joy in the firelight. She went down on her knees before the earl. "With all my heart, I accept all that is said here tonight." She straightened her back, and held her chin high. She reached to her side, fiercely clasping Wash's right hand as she addressed the lord of the house she intended to join. "Lord Muir, I give myself and my abilities to strengthen your house. I vow my allegiance to you. I will raise my children to give you and your sons the same respect that I have for you. For twelve years, I have been nothing but a hostage to the Church. Today I am filled with belonging and love. You give more than wealth to this once lonely girl, you give me hope when once I had none."

Lord Muir took Jessa's hand and raised her from kneeling. He kissed the back of her hand with a smile. "My lady, it is my pleasure to have you join with my house. Now it is late; go back and get your rest. There is much to do over the next few days. Use the spells that Wash shows you to set your experiences as you remember them into the coins. Wash, see me in the morning, and we will discuss your plans to rescue the Deryni hostages." The two brothers clasped their hands together in agreement.

The image of the three people within the earl's office faded from the fourth Cynfyn coin. The last words on the coin were a direct entreaty from Lord Muir, to the person viewing the coin.

_Unto Lady Elzia Von Horthy de Kyriell, come these greetings from the House of Cynfyn of the Earldom of Lendour, in the Kingdom of Gwynedd. Graciously we thank you for taking your time to review these four coins. The images, thoughts, and feelings stored within these tokens are the true memories of your youngest daughter Jessamyn Kyriell, who is alive and well, and of my brother Sir Washburn Iliff Cynfyn, who wishes with all his heart to marry your daughter. The memories have been placed here in your honor to replay the truth, as each of us knows it to be. I have added an occasional word to fill in where Wash or Jessa may have lapsed in their knowledge. As Sir Paulson has been delegated to state in our formal request, my brother is seeking your consent for your daughter's hand in marriage. We request your answer in a timely manner. The Abbess from the Convent of Saint Clair currently holds five Deryni women in captivity. She has threatened their lives if Jessa is not forced to return to her former hostage position. We have plans to free the women from their captivity and keep Jessa from the Abbess's further influence. Sir Paulson has been instructed to answer any further questions you may have and to wait for your prompt reply._

_I look forward to the day when we can share our experiences in person. Farewell._

_The XII day of November in the Year of our Lord Nine Hundred and Eighty-five. Enspelled by my hand,_

_Lord Muir Cynfyn, Earl of Lendour. _

* * *

The story within the forth coin had come to an end.

In the Year of our Lord Eleven Hundred and Twenty-five, the two Deryni reading the coin continued to hold each other's hand with fingers intertwined. For a time, they considering all they had witnessed in the memories of the last coin. Alaric held the coin in his open palm for another moment and then placed it on the table with the other three of its kind. Richenda snuggled deeper into his arms; she seemed reluctant to let the story go. Quietly, she voiced what they were both thinking. "That cannot be all? It's not complete; surely they won't leave us with only a guess to what happened next?"

Alaric pushed all four coins together and lifted the white pouch, searching for a clue. There was nothing else to see. "The coins had a distinct purpose, and I suppose we are to presume that purpose was successful. Although I, too, would wish for confirmation of the outcome. At least the coins are here in Lendour rather than in Tralia. This is a good sign, is it not? Unless they never got sent at all." Alaric frowned, not wishing to state aloud the reasons that may have caused that outcome. "Are you sure there was not another coin in the box? There must be some further clue." He lifted the jeweled box and turned it over.

"There was this blank parchment I found…." Richenda was saying as she reaching out for the folded paper.

"Wait…!" Alaric's hands shifted around the box with surprise as a soft click released an inner catch in the box lid. A thin black enameled plate slid free, exposing a small compartment inside the box. Three items tumbled into Alaric's palm: a ruby ring, a carved shell cameo of a pretty lady, and a fifth silver medal of Cynfyn matching the four coins already reviewed. "Ah yes, there is more."

"The afternoon is getting on, is there time?" Richenda asked.

"Let me check with Derry. I just might be able to get his attention—" Alaric gained an unfocused look in his eyes. "Ah yes, he is resting," he said, calmly inviting Richenda to join in the link. With her hands on her husband's wrists, she heard Derry's reply. _"I hope you are both enjoying yourselves,"_ the man replied with a hint of a jest. _"The afternoon is warm and Gwydion has joined us, adding his ballads to the beauty of the day. Briony is napping, and Brendan is carving a walking stick from a piece of the old oak. You know, if you two saved your fun for the night time, you could be enjoying this afternoon with your family." _

"_Lord Derry, please," _Richenda scolded the bold man in Mind Speech. _"We found a piece of history that has caught our attention. We promise to be down shortly."_

"_As you will, my lady. The entertainment here in the garden is quite refreshing." _Derry said with a hint of pleasure. A glimpse of his view of the troubadour came through the link. Three lovely maidens were sitting opposite, each giving Lord Derry their own shy smiles. Alaric laughed as the rapport quickly ended.

"It seems all is well and we have a little time to ourselves." Alaric kissed his wife suggestively.

"My lord, as Derry implied, the night is best for that pleasure. Let us finish this story so history can have its moment and then we can let the past rest in peace." She lifted up the fifth coin, inviting him to join her.

"As you wish, my lady," said Alaric with a teasing smile.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16 - WIC 11.29.985 5th Coin**

A dusting of white illuminated the ground under the dawning sky. The rain, which had fallen at the start of their campaign, had changed with the temperature's drop to the season's first hail. In unspoken misery, each member of the small team gave their thanks to the heavens as the hail turned to snowflakes and the icy whiteness began to collect on shoulders and horses' backs. Three hours into the journey, the dawn broke over the winterized trees, and the men of Cynfyn saw their road disappear into the river at the west end of the Festil Pass.

Just two months earlier, the battle at the east side of the Festil Pass had been on dry riverbed sands. After many weeks of torrential rain, the riverbed had become a catch-all for the floodwater's coming off the mountainside. Today, the river raged within the confinement of the cliff walls of the pass. From out of the narrow ravine, the water spilled forth, becoming calmer in the wide expanse of the west valley floor. The team of ten riders leading five extra horses stood on the river's south bank. They stared across the water at the north bank where the road resumed. To continue on to the Convent of Saint Clair, they had to cross the river. In the dawning light, the water appeared calm enough to make the attempt.

Stepping their horses down into the chilled water, the Lendour Knights and men-at-arms forged across the shallowest portion of the river. They soon discovered that the center deepened to a horse's belly, and for three horse lengths, each rider fought the under-current. Although the rocky fall downstream was over a mile away, the thought of it was enough to keep each man attentive to walking his horse diagonally against the surge. The shallower waters on the far side made the final climb from the river's edge a relief. Without mishap, the whole team completed the crossing.

They rode another half hour up the north road, climbing over a hill, and then dropping into a clearing in the midst of the trees. Here they were protected from the wind and from the view of the convent, which they knew was just up and around the next bend. The Knight Captain called his men to a halt. Only Sir Dillon moved out alone. Here the nine men would wait for Dillon to return.

Knowing they had time, Washburn ordered everyone to check their gear, rub down their horses' legs, and then settle down around a campfire with their breakfast. The animals they tended to were not the fancy destriers of the knights, but plain dull brown coursers. The horses needed to be spry and at the ready for the moments ahead. They were fine. It was the riders who had no way of drying their dark leather leggings or pouring the water out of their boots. Only one man attempted to remove a boot but found it nearly impossible to pull the icy wet leather back on. At least the thick fur cloaks kept the snow off their head and shoulders and gave some semblance of warmth to the layers of cloth under their chainmail.

Periodically, Dillon sent a mental note about the happenings in the convent courtyard, which he watched through the east gate grille. As arranged, Sister Vivian had purposely left the grille open and had promised to unbar the gate when the time was right. The morning hours slipped by, the storm eased, and the air cleared of the snow flurries. In the hour before noon, the movement inside the grounds increased, and finally Dillon announced that carriages were being hauled from the west side stables and horses were being geared for travel.

Washburn ordered his men out of the fur cloaks and into the garb of the brothers of Saint Foillan's. The grey cassocks slipped over chainmail and swords. The grey cowls were pulled long over their faces, covering the chain mail coif and adding some barrier from the elements. The bright red and white tunics of the house of Cynfyn disappeared. As everyone remounted, the group had transformed into a cluster of monks on their drab, sturdy horses en route home to the abbey.

Artimus settled into his old working saddle uncomfortably. He fiddled with the long priestly robe as it caught in the stirrup, nearly ripping the garment to get it free. Wash had to turn to hide his amusement.

"How can we possible fight in this attire?" the lieutenant said to no one in particular. Many of the men echoed his sentiments.

"That's the idea, we're not planning on going in fighting," the Knight Captain replied. "Father Pernal has asked us to avoid violence if possible. That is why we delayed our rescue mission until today. I had the banns for my wedding announced two days ago in the Cathedral. On the same day, invitations were sent to the nobility of Lendour. One of those invitations was delivered directly into the hands of the Abbess, with a note from Jessa requesting the Abbess's presence at tomorrow's Nuptial Mass. We do not know how the Abbess has responded to this news. We may be overreacting and she may do nothing. However, both Jessa and Sister Vivian believe she is capable of many atrocities when she is angered. The possibility of her starving the women in their locked cells was mentioned." Wash scowled with disgust and then looked around at the personally chosen men of his team.

"Therefore, my good men, we are here to liberate five women whose lives have been placed at risk due to my marriage. We are waiting for the abbess to leave for Cynfyn; which I have word will be soon. We have clergy within the convent to give us aid. Father Pernal has positioned himself among the monks in the stables and Sister Vivian is within and has obtained the keys to the cloister. Both have assured me they can escort the five nuns into our protection once the Abbess has left the grounds. If all goes as planned, we can be safely back to the river before the abbey monks even know we were here." The commander smiled. Inwardly he knew that this plan was too easy to work. He had contingency plans that the good father might not approve. However, he did agree with Monsignor Pernal's ideals that the least amount of fighting would be preferable. All the men were under orders to disarm, not to kill, unless no option remained.

Artimus pulled his dirk out and slipped it into his sleeve. Then he checked the other dagger in his boot along with the short sword tied to the saddle under his left leg. At his commander's questioning gaze he replied, "I'm under orders to see you safely back to your betrothed. Muir is holding me accountable for the bridegroom's wellbeing." The determination in his face was quite clear.

The smile on Washburn's lips turned genuine; his wedding day was one day away. Bishop Michael of Cynfyn had agreed to preside over the celebration of uniting the lovely Jessa and him for all life. It had taken seven days before the first letters of consent had arrived from Rhemuth and then an additional four days before news came from Tralia. Sir Ronald had returned with letters for Jessa from her mother and from her eldest brother, Baron Jathurn Kyriell. Accompanying those letters was a formal letter addressed to the Earl of Lendour. Muir had teased Wash ruthlessly before he broke the seal and read the words of approval. Washburn was getting all he had asked for. All that remained was to free five nuns from their long captivity.

"Gentlemen, we have a job to do. The weather has turned to our advantage. Let us complete the task before us. The lives of five women hang on our next actions," he announced to his men. "We will sleep well in our beds tonight knowing we have rescued them from oppression and handed them safely into Bishop Michael's protection. One of these women is my aunt; should all go well, each of you will receive an honor for rescuing a member of the earl's family. Tomorrow we will all enjoy a full day of celebration. I will expect every one of you to join me in a toast when we tap the new barrels that Chambray's alehouse has gifted to us." The commander's voice was charismatic and challenging.

"Huzzah!" cheered the men before him in unison.

A sound came from the trail ahead and all quieted at the commander's upraised hand. Dillon sent a mental word to be ready. A minute later, he rode out from the bend in the road. He, too, was dressed in monk's garb. The edge of his tunic was splattered with mud, as were his horse's legs.

"The path is very bad in spots," he said, racing up to the Knight Captain's side. "Fortunately the worst spot is in a narrow grotto just before the gates. If you keep the horse's legs under you, there is nowhere to fall. Nevertheless, it is a strenuous climb to go up and a ten-foot slip to go down, so we won't want to be caught there unaware. That, however, is not our main trouble," he pronounced, handing a crumpled parchment over to Wash.

Unfolding the letter, Wash first saw the anonymous mark that Father Pernal had chosen to use. Then his eyes went back up to read the quickly scrolled words.

"_As I write this, the abbess is preparing to leave for the Cathedral at Cynfyn. She is in a foul mood. Twelve nuns were to accompany her to the celebration, but she has ordered all four of the covered carriages prepared for the journey. Just now, I have learned that our five cloistered nuns have been roused and informed to make ready for the travel. I do not know what the abbess has in mind, but it cannot be good. I will be at the east gate when you arrive." _

"Nothing is ever easy," Washburn remarked as he handed the letter over to Arty. "Let us keep a steady pace up the road. And keep it quiet, I don't want to alarm the convent before we get there." Letting Dillon lead the way, Washburn started up the ill-used road. They were a good quarter hour from the east gate. The plans were changing. Now they had to get into the convent courtyard before the carriages left for the west road. Fighting was inevitable.

The east gate opened the moment they were in range. The Lendour Knights came to a halt just inside the empty staging grounds where the stable monk, Father Taft, came anxiously forward. The moment they entered the gates, Arty took two men with him to the bell tower to make certain no one rang the alarm.

"We delayed them for about ten minutes more," the priest called urgently to the knight captain. He held a hand against the bay's flank to keep from being stepped on. "The abbess is not herself. It is odd to me that she decided at the last moment to add several nuns to travel with her entourage. I understand the five had not been out of the cloister in years. She told them there was no reason to bring any baggage as where they were going their needs would be meet. Yet the other sisters had packed for the three-day gathering. The five nuns were gathered together and seated in the last carriage. There were several monks attending to them, and Monsignor Pernal has concealed himself among them. Sister Vivian has also slipped into the last carriage, unseen. Go quickly; they left only a few minutes ago. Catch them before they reach the abbey gates!"

Artimus came out of the bell tower, indicating all was secure. He left one man there to be sure no one rang the church bell. Two more men were assigned to open the west gate and to hold it for the team's return. There was little chance they could get beyond the abbey. The only route out was the way they had come. The reins of the extra horses were handed into Father Taft's care.

"Keep the sisters clear of the courtyard. When we come back, hell's fury will be on our heels!" Wash yelled out as he spurred his horse into a canter. Six of his men followed his lead out of the opening west gate. The cattle fields before them were clear. The carriages had gotten further then Wash cared for. They rounded a hillock and the walls of the abbey loomed in the distance. Halfway between, the four vehicles moved along the road. Spurring their horses into a full gallop, the Lendour warriors ate up the distance between them. Just as the first carriage reached the abbey gates, the men on the wall realized the monks racing up behind were not monks at all. Calls went out and the abbey bell rung in alarm.

Wash cursed under his cowl as the escorting brothers turned their mounts to cut his team off. All except for one. Pleased that no one else noticed, Wash watched that one monk turn his horse to the side of the last vehicle. A moment later, he saw the driver being pulled from his seat and thrown to the ground. That same monk raced forward to the head of the four-horse team and pulled them away from the abbey.

The true monks and the impersonating monks clashed two hundred yards out from the gates. All were quick to discover that neither group was whom they seemed to be. The ordinary abbey priests brandished swords and shields, surprising the Lendour men, while the Lendour warriors threw back their robes, exposing chainmail under Cynfyn tunics and knightly long swords. The clash when the two forces met was punctuated by a resounding clamor of metal striking metal and horses screaming in the confrontation. In the opening encounter, half the abbey monks found their selves tumbled to the snow. The remaining few fought valiantly, but were quickly overwhelmed.

With but one blow from the flat of Washburn's blade, an opponent fell to the ground dazed. While the Lendour men confronted the last knot of monks, Washburn spurred his courser onward, racing to the wayward last carriage. He came level with the window and looked inside to see the faces of the frightened nuns staring out at him. Was one his aunt? He did not know. At least when he saw Sister Vivian, he knew he had the right vehicle. As expected, the monk at the lead horse's head was Father Pernal. Pernal was hauling on the stubborn four-horse team, but could not keep them from wanting to follow the other carriages into the abbey gates.

Wash raced forward and grabbed a rein from the loose harness. With it, he pulled the team over hard. As they made the full turn around in the road, he heard Arty's call. The knight was warning of the churning of men and horses seen through the gates. The moment the third carriage cleared the opening, a mass of riders galloped outward. The race was on.

Pernal once more had control of the lead horse. He had them trotting back up the road toward the convent. Wash slapped the wheel horses with the flat of his sword. The horse whinnied and leaped, pulling the whole team into a gallop; the women yelled out as they were jerked around inside. Racing away from Saint Foillan's, the Lendour men flanked the rear of the vehicle. They slashed and cut at any of the brethren that came up too near from behind.

"Burn the Deryni!" Wash heard over the clatter of hooves and harness rigging. The voice, as from a nightmare, was all too familiar. Wash looked back, not at all surprised to see Father Harmon on a large grey, carrying a flaming torch over his head. Among the fervid mob behind them, a few held burning torches above their heads. The monks were faster than the carriage horses. In groups they dodged forward; men with swords guarding those with the flames. The Lendour men held them off, but one caught the back of the wagon on fire and another managed to swing his torch near the window opening, catching the curtains with its flame. There were screams inside. The carriage veered left and right until the fabric flew out the opening and onto the churned up road. Still, the back of the carriage was alight with flame. Only the wind from their forward momentum kept it to the back of the wooden vehicle.

Wash screamed at the team, using mental skills to push them faster. They rounded the hillock and viewed the open gates of the convent before them. One abbey monk made it to Washburn's side; the edge of the monk's sword grazed across the mail of his left arm. Wash grabbed at the cheek strap of his foe's bridle. He yanked the bit from the horse's mouth, sending the animal into a rear. His men charged up from behind. It was Dillon who jammed the hilt of his sword into the brethren's side, throwing him and his horse to the ground.

With the burning carriage at the lead, the team entered the convent gates with all seven Lendour men close behind. Two monks managed to slip through the gates before they closed hard against the rest of the abbey's men. Those two were at a sudden disadvantage and were quickly set upon being beaten down off their mounts. Dillon herded them to the side and kept them on their knees. Father Pernal hauled up on the lead carriage horse. The front team whinnied and reared in panic. The wheel team snorted and stomped. All four horses smelled the fire they could not see beyond their blinders.

The flames flared up across the roof and sides of the wooden vehicle. The women inside screamed, desperate to escape. Wash and Arty both leaped from their mounts. Pulling off his cassock, Washburn beat away the flames from the carriage door. Three of the younger women leaped from the opening and were pulled to safety by the men. Two of the nuns were older, of an age with his aunt. Both were slower to move to the carriage door, but once they came in reach of the men they were quickly carried away from the danger. Sister Vivian was the last to disembark; her hands showed burns where she had grabbed the curtains to toss them away from the others. Father Pernal lifted her out and wrapped her hands in fresh cloth the moment he saw them.

The Knight Captain ordered men to secure the west gate. Word quickly came back that the gates were successfully barred closed, and they would hold from the mass of men already accumulating beyond. The Lendour team had a few minutes to put back some semblance of order to their rescue effort. Although it would not take too long for the abbey brothers to either work their way over the north hill or to acquire ladders to climb the wall. Washburn posted men on the wall to watch for either occurrence. He saw to it that Dillon and Ronald escorted the two captured monks to a storeroom, locking them in. In addition, he appointed others of his men to help Father Taft unhitch the unruly team of horses and move them clear of the spreading flames. The commotion brought the convent nuns out from their hiding in the church and main buildings. The Knight Captain indicated for Father Pernal to arrange the nuns with buckets in a line from the well. He doubted they could douse the flames but at least they could keep them from spreading. The ice and snow on everything was a blessing to confine the fire to its source. At least no threat appeared to come from the sisters in residence.

Wash turned his attention to the nuns who'd been pulled from the carriage. Two were younger, of an age with Sister Vivian. They flitted anxiously on the side, disbelieving what had just occurred. The third was of middle age, her face showing maturity under the wimple. She spoke calmly to Sir Artimus, obviously hiding her discomfort at talking to a man; her hands kept twisting at the strand of her prayer beads. The two older nuns sat on the ground together, with pale, age-lined faces under their grey wimples. One was frail and thin, showing her fear. The other's face was round with wide blue eyes. This nun surveyed the men before her with interest. Was one of these women his aunt?

Wash knelt before them. "May I ask if one of you is Sister Meris?"

"I am she," the more observant nun claimed.

"Then am I correct when I ask if you are a Cynfyn, sister of Erwin?" She nodded at his words. "I am your nephew, Washburn Cynfyn. I have come to take you to the castle." He raised his voice for all standing around to hear. "For your protection, all five of you will need to be moved to the castle. From there you can discuss your placement with Bishop Michael. However, none of you may remain here any longer."

"I do not understand," said the middle-aged sister. "We were going to the Cathedral at Cynfyn already. Why did you turn us back"

"You were never going to the city," Father Pernal said loudly from behind Wash as he came back to the center courtyard. "I heard the brothers as we left the gates. The last carriage was to be detained at the abbey. The occupants to be incarcerated, judged, and if found to be Deryni, then they were to be denounced as heretics against the Church. Absolution in the form of fire was already awaiting any Deryni that lay hidden, unknown until now, in the very bosom of the Virgin's house." Pernal's face was very severe with anger. "My lord, their ashes were to be your wedding present from the Abbess after tomorrow's Mass."

There was a terrible silence across the grounds. A younger sister swooned; Arty caught her before she fell. It was Sister Meris who broke the silence. She took her nephew's hand and used his strength to stand. With a strong voice, she announced, "If this is so, then we are in your debt, my lord… in debt to all who came to our aid." She nodded to all those standing before her. "I see we have a long path yet to travel. Sisters, it is time we go."

"Who among you can ride? We have quiet palfreys; if you can ride, you will find them pleasant animals. Sister Vivian, there is one for you as well; it would not be safe for you to stay. Aunt, I think it best you ride with me. Sir Ronald, I'll have you escort Sister..." He paused, looking at the second older nun.

She perked up. "Sister Lynn, my lord," she informed him.

Wash smiled at Ronald's discomfort. He needed Dillon's and Arty's sword arms free if they were to get out of this. "Men, be sure to adjust the stirrups for the women, and check the girths. The way is muddy and all will need a secure seat."

Sister Vivian pointed to Father Taft. "The good father will need to join us as well," Sister Vivian said. Wash agreed to the addition. He confirmed that the three younger nuns could ride and that each was settled securely into her saddle. The women all rode astride; there was no room for the delicateness of riding sidesaddle today.

"Mount up!" Washburn called to his men. "We have a bad trail ahead of us, and I want to be south of the river before the brothers of Saint Foillan try to stop us." Sixteen horses settled their riders on their backs. Two rode double. Dillon was the first out the east gate, and Arty was the last. Washburn, with his aunt settled before him, found a middle spot in the cavalcade of equines.

The snow covered the eastern road, making it difficult to find footing on the downward trail. The going was slow. In some spots, the water had worn the road away to just rocks, while in other places, the road mired down in mud and the horses sank to their fetlocks, unsure. They came to the ten-foot mudslide where each horse had to go down alone. As the multitude of hooves churned up the mud, the path worsened with each passing. The palfrey of the middle-aged nun slipped with feet flailing to catch its balance. The sister clung on only by a handful of mane. The dark palfrey injured a leg and had to be relieved of his rider. Father Pernal volunteered to take the sister double with him. Washburn held his aunt tight as his horse sat back low on his haunches and slid down the ten feet. The four men-at-arms between him made the slide with no further mishap, as did Arty bringing up the rear.

The Knight Captain signaled the line to move on. It was taking too long to get back to the river. Only after they past the clearing of their earlier stop, did the road widened for faster travel. At the crest line of the next hill, they could see the river traverse the valley below. That was when the convent bells rang their alarm across the mountain pass. The sound was a motivator for the team to move forward; they all knew that pursuit would not be far behind.

The sight of the river loomed through the breaks in the trees and became increasingly more visible as they got closer to the valley floor. Seen in the full light of day, the water looked wider and swifter than it had at dawn. Those who saw it for the first time frowned with fear and apprehension. Washburn was most of the way down the hill when he saw that Dillon was already guiding the first nun's disagreeable horse across the water. The smaller horse splashed and fought the current as it sunk to mid-chest. Dillon's larger courser, on the down-river side, held the palfrey from slipping and washing away.

Ronald and Father Taft surrounded the next nun's horse. They grabbed the mount's headstall and led it down into the rushing stream. Horses whinnied at the cold water, and Sister Lynn clung tight to her escorting young knight. Father Taft seemed a bit unbalanced, as the water splashed against his knees.

Washburn had no time to see them climb the opposite bank; sounds of a defiant charge came from behind, beyond where Sir Artimus brought up the rear of the team. All six men-at-arms gathered at the bottom of the road. They were determined to hold the road to give the others time to forge the river. Wash signaled Sister Vivian and Father Pernal with the forth nun to start moving across. The sooner everyone was clear of the dangerous waters, the better. The bay Wash rode stomped on the river's bank as he spurred the unwilling animal forward. The howls of men charging the line made Wash turn back just in time to see Artimus race through the cluster of waiting defenders with two armed monks at his flank.

Unstoppable, they broke through the men-at-arms and attacked Artimus just as he turned. The knight dodged the first attacker and then extended a swift jab at the following man. Arty's long sword slid across the shield of the monk. Both knight and monk came side by side, grappling to throw the other off his mount. The first attacker reeled back to add his weight to the fray. The swing of his blade connected across Arty's extended sword arm. The jarring force dented the mail of the knight's upper arm and bruised it to the bone, costing the lieutenant his grasp on his weapon.

Washburn jumped his steed into the fight. His long sword struck the cowled monk's head, knocking the man senseless to the ground. The violence shocked Sister Meris; she clung to her nephew's left arm and cowered against his chest.

There was no time to placate her sensibilities. Together, Arty and Wash pulled the second monk from his horse. With a yell and kick, Wash scared the animal down the riverbank. Both knights looked up as a dozen more monks raced down the road to stop them. Half of these monks displayed the episcopal regiment insignia on their shields. The Knight Captain knew the regiment's abilities all too well from the siege at Rengarth. Just a few months ago, they had fought side by side. These few men were part of that highly trained guard. Today they maintained a ferocious zeal in their yells as they charged the thieves stealing their nuns from the convent. Wash doubted they knew the sisters had been slated for the pyres. He prayed it was not possible that these men who had fought at his side last season could turn on all Deryni so easily.

Having lost his long blade, Arty pulled his short sword from under his leg. "Get across the river; we have your back," Arty yelled at his commander just as he turned back into the melee. Wash had no choice but to spin his courser around. He sheathed his sword, grabbed his reins in his right hand, and wrapped his left arm about his aunt. He forced the animal into the river. Too quickly, the horse slipped, dunking Sister Maris and Sir Washburn in waist deep. The bay kicked against the river bottom several times, squealing and anxious for solid ground. The current carried them downstream several feet before the bay found a shallower river floor to make better footing. Wash calmed the animal down before urging him back across the current.

A great splash of water came from the north bank; two horses escaped the battle in the mud and charged in the Knight Captain's direction.

"Hold on!" Wash yelled at his aunt over the sounds of the horses surging toward him. He had just enough time to draw his broad sword and spin his horse around to defend against the first swing that had been aimed at his back. He and his attacker exchanged a strike and a parry, Wash at the distinct disadvantage of protecting the older woman seated before him. His opponent's next strike went wide as the Abbey horse slipped on the uneven riverbed floor. Washburn took that small advantage. His sword slammed the other's arm, jarring the other's grip on his sword. The monk was disarmed; his sword fell to the depths unseen. The rider yelled a litany of curses as he retreated several steps, fumbling for something within his robes.

The second rider lunged toward the Deryni lord. "Devil take you and all your Deryni heathens!" Father Harmon proclaimed. Washburn look up into the face of hate.

"Your hate has driven you mad!" Washburn yelled back. "We are men and women of flesh and bone just like you. Deryni have done you no personal harm. Leave off, priest; don't put me in a position to kill you."

"What do you know of harm? Your kind meddles in devilry and steals the will of men from their souls! I've seen the Torenthi Deryni force men to tell their secrets and beguile brother to kill brother."

"That was the Torenthi," Wash yelled across the rushing water. "They are the enemy, and we have defeated them in battle." He spurred his bay downsteam, away from the mad priest. "That evil does not live in the hearts of the Deryni of Gwynedd. You, yourself, poisoned a man's mind to turn on his friends. That makes you the same as your enemy!" Washburn yelled angrily. "Even so, I would have peace with you. Leave off, Monsignor!" Wash demanded, wanting to put an end to the intolerance and hate.

Father Harmon was too gone in his delusion. "The devil take all of your kind back to Hell!" He charged his destrier at Washburn's smaller mount. The Father was neither swordsman nor horseman; his intentions were to knock the mail-clad knight into the current. The grey's chest smashed into Washburn's right leg and his teeth bit down on the bay's neck. During the collision, the attacking priest's blade swung wildly across at Aunt Merissa's head. The nun screamed and ducked away as the bay reared from the bite. Aunt Merissa slipped from her seat and it was all Wash could do to deflected the force of the Father's sword and grab his aunt's waist with is off hand to hold her from the fall. As his bay came down from his rearing, Wash took a desperate chance that might cost him his own balance to jab his spurred heal fiercely into the grey's shoulder.

Surprised, the trained destrier reared, kicking in warhorse fashion at the bay's haunches. The Lendour bay leapt further downstream out of the grey's reach. But now the bay was in deeper water, he whinnied and struggled for the south bank. Water splashed over the two riders, Marissa lost her balance again, and Wash held on to his aunt and to his balance with all his might. In the same struggle for balance, the Physician Monsignor did not have the same strength, his warhorse reared high and the rider's feet slipped from his stirrups. The other man in the water could have steadied the priest, but instead he was too intent on the throwing dagger in his hand. The dirk flew free across the water, aimed at Washburn's back. At the last moment, the blade tipped low, harmlessly skimming the Knight Captain's armored hip instead.

Wash looked up to see Dillon in trance on the south river bank. The second lieutenant smiled after the dagger fell to the water, doing no harm.

There was more yelling in the middle of the river where the priest flailed, half off his mount. In the rushing current, the priest's unbalanced floundering pulled the grey stallion off its feet. Caught in a sinkhole, both rider and horse went under. The horse came to the surface, but for a long moment, the Monsignor did not. Only once did Wash see an arm and head break the surface for air, but it was not air that the priest breathed in, and he sank out of sight caught in the river's undercurrent. The falls downstream would be reached in short time. If the river did not drowned its victim than the plunge on to rocks would finish the job.

The sound of battle to the north continued. Looking up, Wash watched the skirmish on the river's edge. The tumultuous mass of horses and men circled each other, kicking up mud and water and obscuring the view. Men went down, and it was impossible to see who was who in the confusion. Wash urged his horse on; as long as he held his aunt, he would be useless in the fight. She was aware of the danger and did nothing further to distract her nephew from his goal.

The commander listened to the splash of water and the grunt of horses behind him. Several horses plunged into the floodwater. Wash could not spare the moment to look back as he climbed the river's edge, his bay jumping the berm of the reed-covered slope. Dillon was instantly at his side, assuring himself of the aunt's and the commander's health. With a nod, he turned back to the river. In the need to help defend, Dillon leaped his courser back into the water to assist Artimus and his men-at-arms as they fought for their escape.

"Father Pernal!" Washburn called to those huddled together on the south bank. "Get everyone moving down the road quickly, as fast as you dare." He dearly wanted to join the fray, but there was no time to move his aunt to another protector. He held his sword at the ready and waited for the others to cross the river.

Men in chain mail fought in the current. A horse slipped, taking two others with it. One was a man of the commander's. The chainmail, cumbersome and heavy, hindered the men from finding their footing in the four-foot deep water. Two men managed, the third did not. A Lendour horseman charged through the waters to rescue the swimmers. Both monks and the castle guardsman gratefully grabbed at stirrups and leathers, to be pulled back to slower water.

The realization that the Lendour man had saved two of their own from drowning struck several of the monks already reevaluating the fight. Many were unhorsed, while others were injured, but none had died in the chaos. The monks soon realized the Lendour men only fought to escape. Without their antagonistic leader, nearly all the religious men turned from the fight and fought the current back to the north bank. Still, a small contingent splashed in the water as they struggled to defeat one man. Wash could now see Artimus was the man taking their abuse.

Arty was in a desperate position, dagger in one hand, short sword in the other. He was outflanked by the last two monks. Both were determined to get some retribution out of their failed attempt to recapture the Deryni nuns. With a vengeful swing, one monk made a solid cut against Arty's coif, knocking the lieutenant forward over his horse's neck. Dillon came up just then behind this attacker. His angry swing with the flat of his blade caught the man at the back of his head. The rider fell forward on the horse's neck, unconscious, and his horse turned back to the northern shore in his confusion. Furious, the last monk cursed the two Lendour knights, but he was subdued by Dillon's presence and backed away to help his unconscious brother return to the river's north edge. Falling into his own concussed delirium, Arty slipped from his courser's neck. Dillon grabbed a handful of tunic and forcibly set his semiconscious friend back on his mount.

The Lendour men-at-arms who had chased the retreating monks from the water turned back south to help the two knights. Together, they crossed the remainder of the stream. Eight men on six horses wearily climbed up the south embankment as one.

When the water had been escaped, Dillon stopped Artimus to check on his friend. Arty blinked his eyes with some semblance of awareness. He lifted his head unsteadily, reassuring himself that Wash was safe. "I promised Muir I would return you to your bride in one piece," he managed to mumble.

"Aye, and you're my best man. You had better hang on, my friend, or my lady will have my hide if you don't stand as witness in the cathedral." Washburn pulled his gauntlet off his hand and raised his fingers up to the Lieutenant's forehead. He sent a dose of energy to his friend, allowing Arty to settle easier in his saddle, and at the very least stay conscious.

The numbing effects of the cold water made it hard at first call to evaluate other injuries in the rescue team, but a quick count had all eighteen of his people accounted for, although two horses had defected to the north bank. Wash ordered everyone on the west trail to get clear of the watching eyes of the Abbey men before those men decided to pursue them further. Soon catching up with the others, Washburn ordered a stop to assess the injuries and to rearrange the riders. Few wounds were serious, most requiring only a quick, tight bandaging. Sister Vivian gave up her mount and doubled with Sir Artimus, keeping the wounded man in the saddle. Another guard, on Washburn's orders, rode double with the younger of the nuns. When all were ready, Wash ordered the riders back on the downward trail. There was only two hours left of the short winter day with a full three-hour ride before them. The shelter from the castle walls seemed an eternity away.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17 - MC 11.30.985 5th Coin**

The deep tones of the cathedral bells rang across the mountain city of Cynfyn. The bells rang Sext, yet the low, dark clouds held the Lendour Mountains hostage from the noon sun. Most years it was a joy to see the first snow fall; the castle rooflines turned white to gleam and sparkle in the daylight, and drops of water iced over to hang like ornaments from the stone crenelations and window embrasures. The first snow usually signified an end to the harvest and an end to external strife; a time for peace and for family to celebrate life in full with the past told in stories and the future whispered in dreams.

"Tomorrow," the earl said aloud as he looked across his office to the snow piled a handspan deep against his window ceil. "Tomorrow, we will celebrate," Muir promised himself. Today, he frowned at the freezing cold air and worried over those out in it. As he watched, the snowflakes fell with a silent calm, unlike this morning, when the winds had blown them harshly against the window. He wondered what his brother was thinking of the weather now. Last night, as the rain started once more, Washburn had joked that if the heavens favored him this day, than the rain would turn to snow to give his team an advantage. Did Wash still consider this being favored? Were things proceeding according to the plans they had arranged? Muir held his confidence and laughed at his own unease. His men were entering a convent; this was not a mission into an enemy's stronghold. Nothing like the King's orders the previous spring to infiltrate the occupied City of Rengarth. There should be little cause for concern.

The sound of a throat clearing brought Muir's thoughts back into the room. "If you do not sign that agreement soon, I do not see how we can celebrate tomorrow," Ohlin admonished with a light voice. He sat at the side of the desk with a pile of parchments already signed. His feather quill reached across and tapped the blank space at the bottom of the dowry agreement.

"Is this the last of it? I cannot believe the detail required for a simple marriage," Muir stated as he looked over the long agreement again.

"Yes, my lord. This is the last one. The most important one that releases your ward from your guardianship and gifts Jessa's dowry to your brother's estate. Your signature just there, and all will be done as stated within." Ohlin once more indicated the blank space. Muir hesitated. "Is there a problem, my lord?" Ohlin inquired more seriously.

"No, not really. I just wish there was more to offer." Muir put his quill to the ink and signed his name with a flourish. "Who would have guessed that little lost girl who was found in the city would someday be the same young woman who would marry my brother? I don't believe my father could have ever anticipated that to happen on the day he signed that first letter of wardship twelve years ago."

"There is much that has happened that your father would never have anticipated. Your father was right about you boys, though. He always said both of you would grow up to be honest, respectable men. I saw that in you right away; the oldest taking a firm hold of his responsibilities. However, your brother…. From the over-told stories of self-reliance coming out of Rhemuth and the little that I saw of him, well, let me just say that I owe Lord Washburn an apology for thinking him a trouble starter and a ne'er-do-well."

Muir had to laugh. "Do you still hold a grudge over that dog bath incident?" The earl paused to snicker at the old man's fallen features. "You know that it was I who purposely gave Wash the wrong words to that spell. And you know, I never did tell him. All on his own, he learned to make that spell work correctly even with the wrong words. In a lot of ways, Wash is a more responsible man than I am."

"My lord, I would never go that far. In the past weeks, I have come to appreciate, even admire, your brother. However, I cannot understand why your 'responsible' brother, who is about to be married, is out gallivanting with his men in this miserable weather. Do you know he is out on a stag hunt! Honestly, where is the responsibility in that!"

Muir looked up at the disapproval on the steward's face. He had forgotten that he had not told Ohlin the truth. Until Wash returned, the castle residents all believed the bridegroom had left early that morning to go out on a hunt.

"Lord Washburn is not out on a hunt; at least he is not hunting wildlife today. He is on a mission for Jessa— and for me…." The opening of the office door interrupted Muir's explanation. At the earl's nod, a squire walked in and bowed. Behind him, a city guard was standing just beyond the door. Muir motioned him to enter.

"My lord, a delegation from Tralia has been seen on the road. They should be entering the city gates within the hour," announced the guard.

"They are out in this weather, too? Here I thought we would have to hold the ceremony for their arrival tomorrow. Have Sir Lambert and Sir Kass greet them properly at the city gates and escort them with full honors to the castle." Muir turned to Ohlin. "I hope all of our guest rooms are in order. We will need them all this day. Be sure to put aside two rooms for those that Wash will bring back with him." Ohlin gave Muir an inquiring look, but Muir did not answer him. He looked out the window once more at the snow and then left his office to go in search for his ward.

Two days had passed since the wedding banns for Washburn and Jessamyn had been made public to the people of Lendour. In those two days the ladies of Cynfyn had congregated in the withdrawing room opening onto the castle's gardens. They brought with them yardages of cloth, winter flowers, sprigs of evergreen plants, ivy, and garlands, along with an array of ribbons. They created the decorations that would turn the main hall into a place of celebration. In addition, they sewed the necessities needed for the sweet but deprived young lady to have in her trousseau. Privately, during the two weeks of Jessa's seclusion, Lady Melina, and Sister Vivian worked with Jessa to sew gowns for her to wear and other small necessities that she would need in her new life.

The Countess Ida of Carcashale, Jessa's closest friend while growing up in the convent, had arrived in the middle of those two weeks. She enthusiastically joined in the creation of her best friend's new wardrobe. Gowns of red, pink or blue in velvets or wool, lightly trimmed, were quickly sewn. But what had all the ladies in disagreement was the choice of fabric for Jessa's wedding gown. When Sir Ronald returned from the Isle of Orsal, the problem was solved. Among all his letters, he held out a linen-wrapped package addressed to Jessamyn with a note from her mother:

"_I have never forgotten your first golden aura when you were only the age of four. Your father commented how it perfectly matched the gleam of your hair. The color of gold has always reminded me of you, my dearest child. I am giving you this yardage with joy in my heart, and I cannot wait for the time when we can be together again."_

The linen unwrapped to show a resplendent silk taffeta of honey-gold. There was no longer any doubt what Jessa's wedding gown would be.

Muir arrived in the withdrawing room, in the midst of industry. A lute and a tenor's voice filled the room with music. Women giggled and flitted about the room with streamers of ribbons and garlands. All but three women were enjoying the preparations. Appearing out of place amidst the gaiety of the room, the three women sat sedately in the window alcove sewing the last embroideries on the hem of the wedding gown. Muir approached the ladies and saw his baby sleeping in the basket near his wife. He affectionately touched the boy's little hand, allowing the tiny fingers to curl over his. The three women anxiously waited for the earl to look up. Melina was the one to openly address her husband. "Is there news, my lord? We would gladly accept any news that you may have." As the countess spoke, Jessa sat up straighter, bracing herself for the earl's answer to his wife's inquiry.

"The news from our hunter is scarce. An hour ago, he sent that the wolf had left her den. I do not expect more news for some time yet. But I am certain there is no need for worry." Muir's confidence seemed to reassure two of the three ladies.

"There! See, Jessa?" Lady Ida said to her friend. "You needn't worry. Focus on your stitching and the day will go by much faster."

"Actually, my ladies, I'm here to ask you to put aside what you are doing and ready yourselves for the arrival of the Tralian delegation. Jessa, I'm told your mother will be with us within the hour."

A small gasp escaped the bride's lips. She turned paler than she already had been and her hands shook on the fabric she held. Melina took the needle and silk thread from Jessa's fingers and then hugged her tightly. "We will happily greet them when they arrive," Melina said as she smiled at Jessa's dismay. "Ida, hand the gown over to Lady Lisa to finish the hem. Nellie," she called to the baby's nurse, "please bring Euan with us. Jessa, I think that rose-colored gown will put some color back in your cheeks. Come ladies, there is much to do."

All the preparations for the next day's feast came to an abrupt halt as the populace of Castle Cynfyn gathered in the great hall to greet the travelers from the south. Fifteen people—three women and twelve men—stood in the screens passage and divested themselves of their long winter cloaks. They took a moment to neaten their attire before standing in ceremony at the opening to the hall.

"Baron Jathurn Kyriell and the Baroness Elzia von Horthy de Kyriell." announced Steward Ohlin with a formal flair.

A tall man led his delegation down the center aisle. His hair gleamed with various shades of cooper and his tunic was lavish in greens and ivories. The lady he led forward was wearing a matching gown with a green veil hiding the coils of her long blond hair. Intermittently, one of them would glance away from the earl and countess and search the throng of people standing on the sides. Muir noted how Jessa stood hiding behind Ida in the midst of the crowd. She held Ida's arm, her fingers turning white on the countess's sleeve.

Muir looked away from Jessa. He greeted her family with gracious formality. They completed the formal greeting with brief words from his royal highness, Prince Erastus, from across the narrow sea. When the earl did not immediately produce the subject of the Tralians' visit, the Baron openly made the inquiry. "My mother and I would wish for an introduction to Lord Washburn, your brother, and to his betrothed, the Lady Jessamyn Kyriell."

"I will make you a formal apology that my brother is unattainable at this moment, having been called away for an arduous task." Muir smiled at the disappointment on the two faces standing before him. "Nevertheless, I believe I can accommodate the second part of your request." Muir stood with a slight flourish and stepped down the dais passed the Baron and Baroness to face the populace. The crowd parted, revealing two women standing alone, one nearly hiding behind the other. "Jessa, I believe this is a moment you have long awaited. Come, greet your family whom you have not seen for twelve years." Muir held out his hand. The woman behind suddenly blushed the color of her gown. She untangled her long fingers from her friend's sleeve, straightened her shoulders, and stood tall. Hiding her insecurities, she smiled and stepped up to take Muir's hand. Her grip that moved to his arm was firm as he walked her forward to greet her brother and mother.

"I give you my ward, Jessa, recently released from the Convent of Saint Clair." Jessa curtsied deeply, her head bowed low. Lady Elzia stepped forward, bending down to touch the young lady's chin and to turn her pretty face upward. Both their eyes met, and for a long moment neither dared to move.

"I searched the markets for a match to your favorite tapestry. You remember the one I speak of?" Elzia asked, biting her lip in need of the proper reply.

"Yes, my lady. I recall two tapestries that had my love: the one in the family solar with the knight on a sorrel horse and a red-roofed castle in the background, and the other, my favorite, with two white unicorns that played beside a lake deep in a forest. On the night before my birthday, I told Father how much I loved that tapestry, and the morning of my birthday I saw it hanging on the wall above my bed." Jessa's voice quivered as she spoke. "I am sorry, mama, but I watched that tapestry turn to flames…. It terrified me." Tears wet her cheeks.

"Shush, my sweet." Instantly, the mother pulled her daughter into her arms. After many years, Jessa was held in the embrace of her mother, the pair of arms that could soothe all her fears away.

The sun had set and the flurries of snow once more filled the air. The bride stood upon the rampart wall, staring off to the east. Several women stood beside her. Among them were her best friend, her future sister in-law, and her mother. They eased her worry for the absence of the bridegroom. He should have returned from his campaign by sunset, and their attempts to contact him had brought no results.

Lord Muir paced just outside the eastern gate. The entrance was open and the drawbridge was down. Guards lined the end of the bridge, attentive to the road leading into the forest. Just an hour before, at the turn before the castle wall, the rushing stream had given up the body of a man. The men of Cynfyn could only identify him as a priest; however, Muir recognized the monsignor immediately. That was when Muir sent out two scout parties: one to scour the river's edge for more casualties, and one to race up the road to find their missing team.

The earl stepped to the center of the drawbridge with Baron Jathurn walking beside him. Both men looked up at the walk above the gates. Through the crenellations, they saw Jessa leaning outward, a cloak draped across her head and shoulders.

"I think my other two sisters would be envious of this young lady's beauty," the baron said with a sideways smile. "We all reviewed the coins, of course, but seeing my youngest sister in person lends reality to the story. Mother cried for days afterwards, and I'll admit, I was mad at the coins for reopening an old wound. In my skepticism, I told my mother I would travel here to learn the truth," the baron continued. "The seas were rough, but still, I could not stop my mother from taking the journey with me." Just then, Lady Elzia leaned out beside her daughter. She brushed Jessa's face with her fingers, and then pulled her daughter back within the wall.

"I am glad you both came," replied Muir. "The past weeks have been emotionally charged. Jessa seems much more secure since she received your letters." Muir looked back to the east. "And with the worries of today, I am grateful that your mother came."

Muir was beginning to think it was time to ride out on the road himself. Taking a deep breath, for the tenth time that evening he broadcasted his thoughts toward his brother. Unlike all the times before, this time he caught his brother's exhausted attention.

"_We're coming home,"_ Washburn announced through the link. _"There are a few injuries, but mostly we need a change of clothes and a warm hearth to thaw our frozen bones."_ Muir acknowledged the link and barked out a list of orders; one was to stoke all the hearths in the main hall.

"_My lady, they are coming_," Muir mentally sent to the bride. She once more leaned outward, straining to catch the words from her beloved. They must have passed private words, for suddenly she turned back from the wall and hugged the women at her side. Word traveled fast, and anxiously everyone waited for a first glimpse of the returning party.

The band of riders emerged from the darkness of the trees. They looked worn, bedraggled, and cold, though mostly they seemed grateful to be home. Muir's escort men led them across the bridge and into the bailey. Sir Washburn headed his team, an elderly nun seated on the horse's withers before him. Following the Knight Captain came his two lieutenants. Dillon sat in the saddle straight as he guided the bay horse Artimus rode. Arty was slumped back against Sister Vivian. She held the wounded knight, preventing him from tumbling out of the saddle. Arty lifted his head as he entered the castle courtyard. Home at last! His was not the only face that reflected the relief of this day coming to a close.

The earl pointed everyone to continue to the great hall. Muir counted each person as they passed by him. All the men from the rescue team and the first scout party were here, with the addition of the five nuns and three other clergy. Wash pulled out of the line, motioning for the others to move on. Jessa had raced down the steps, stopping only as she came to his side, both her hands reaching upward to give greetings to the two people she loved. Muir was reminded that his aunt, Sister Meris, had been Jessa's caregiver after she had been taken from her mother. The two womens' eyes glistened with tears as they privately renewed their relationship. After a minute, Wash walked his horse toward the main hall, with Jessa walking beside him, her hand resting on his knee.

Lady Elzia walked up to Muir and Jathurn, her gaze still watching the couple retreat toward the castle. "She really does love him. In all my days, I never imagined such a reunion as this." The princess smiled happily.

"I too am pleased. My lady, I think it would be best for you to get out of this cold. I would not have you ill from our horrid weather." Muir motioned for Jathurn to escort his mother into the main hall.

There was much activity on the cobbled grounds before the castle steps. Men and squires took horses in hand and assisted the weary riders from their mounts. Everyone was ushered into the warmed main hall where fresh blankets and warm clothes awaited. Muir stayed out in the courtyard until the very last man-at-arms had dismounted. He ordered the grooms to see to the wellbeing of the horses. When all was secure, he followed the last man inside.

As Muir entered the festive hall, decorated for the celebrations yet to come, he checked on the men gathered at the west hearth. All of the men were being relieved of their chainmail and tunics or priest's robes. Most of the men stripped to the skin, not caring who was near. They would do anything just to get dry and warm. Chills and chattering teeth had just become the symptom of too long exposure to the icy air. The knights' squires and castle servants held out fur-lined robes and ushered each man before the blazing hearths where warm, oiled hands rubbed down numb legs and arms. Muir found the women at the east side hearth behind long portable screens doing the same. Melina had everything in hand; with hot bath water and warmed furs the women found ways to turn away the cold.

Muir continued on, finding Wash at the upper hearth; Artimus lay on a fur on the warmed stone. His clothes were removed, and he lay snuggled in a fur. The only parts exposed were his right arm and shoulder where sword cuts and bruising told its own story. Jessa was kneeling at his head, already in Healer's trance. As Muir watched, the raw wounds diminished, then faded and healed away clean. That was still a wonder to behold. After another moment, the cut on the knight's head disappeared, leaving only the mat of blood in his hair. Artimus opened his eyes wide at the Healer, a faint smile on his lips. When he tried to sit up, both Jessa and Wash held him back.

"No you don't," Wash commanded. "You just rest here for a time. That brain inside your head has been rattled and you need to let it settle back into place."

"I won't miss the wedding. After everything to make sure we got back…."

"You'll be there, my friend, at my side, I promise," Wash said with a smile.

"Good man. You did well, bringing home the bridegroom unscathed." Muir patted Arty's shoulder in approval before turning to Wash. "Dear brother, Jessa's family has arrived. They are waiting to meet you. However, I suggest you see to your own needs first. Robby over there has been biting his lip with concern. I believe he even has a hot bath waiting."

The Knight Captain cringed. "More water." He was sure water was going to be the death of him yet. Jessa reached across and brushed his tired face. Whatever it was that passed between them, he suddenly flushed, warming up inside. As he stood and then left, both Muir and Arty looked back at the bride. She, too, was blushing.

Quickly she excused herself, muttering, "I'll see to the others."

Muir nodded approval when Jathurn said he would assist her. The baron said he himself was not a Healer but he had often assisted his younger brother who did have that gracious gift.

The bells chimed Sext when the wedding procession from Cynfyn Castle arrived at the Cathedral square on the glorious first day of December. The entire population of the Cynfyn valley had turned out for the pageantry. They cheered and threw garlands before the feet of the bride's white palfrey. The bride rode seated delicately aside, with her brother Baron Kyriell on a large black destrier, offering escort. The storms of yesterday had passed in the night, and drifts of fog still remained in the air.

The bride was beautiful. A white fur cloak lay about her shoulders. The front stood away, exposing a gown of deep gold. The delicate veil over the bride cascaded down her sides and around the horse. The sheerness allowed the artistry of ribbons and flowers to be seen intertwined in her hair. In the middle of the procession, the wisps of fog lifted and a golden glow of light shone down on the bride.

The front of the procession was a vibrant display of Lendour red and white banners heralding the twenty knights in full parade honors escorting the bridegroom. Sir Washburn, on his sorrel R'Kassi stallion, was dressed in a white silk shirt under a black velvet tunic embroidered in red vines and a rearing stag over his heart. A white fox fur cape was draped over one shoulder. His rank of Knight Captain was distinguished by the gold chain lying around his shoulders. The exhaustion from the successful campaign of the day before was gone. Wash was beaming with as much nervous pride as any bridegroom could show. Lord Muir rode at his side, and two proud knights rode just behind. His two lieutenants, between them, shared a series of stories that were meant to tease the groom. Their banter had little effect as the bridegroom, with anxious anticipation, continually glanced back over his shoulder to find a view of his bride through the crowd.

The knights and squires dismounted before the cathedral square. They cleared a path down the center and stood at attention every few feet along the aisle for the wedding procession to continue on foot to the Cathedral doors. The earl pulled his brother aside as those behind disembarked from their carriages. The ladies of the court —Princess Elzia, Countess Melina, Countess Ida, Sister Vivan and Sister Meris—were honored with escort to the steps by Earl Titus, Sir Dillon and Sir Artimus. Once there, they were merrily greeted by Bishop Michael in full regalia of his office: the sacramental alb of pure white under a chasuble of sumptuously decorated white brocade, the stole of gold elaborately embroidered, and the mitre of white and gold. The bishop stood before the doors to the Cathedral. Before him, the prie-dieu awaited the arrival of the man and woman wishing to be joined in matrimony.

The baron dismounted and stepped to the side of the white palfrey. His hands encircled his sister's waist to lift her from the saddle. With a flourish and grace, he walked Jessa forward and bowed before the Knight Captain. "I present to you my youngest sister. On your honor do you promise to protect and cherish her?"

"I most certainly do, my Lord Kyriell," Wash replied.

"Then with my blessing, lead her forward into marriage and a good life," Jathurn replied, placing Jessa's hand in Wash's. Both men bowed and Jessa curtsied low.

Wash raised her up with a broad smile. "My lady, would you join me before the Cathedral doors? I believe we have a new life to begin."

Blushing under her veil, she gave him a happy smile. Arm in arm, they walked forward up the steps and knelt side by side on the prie-dieu to begin the wedding ceremony.

Before all of Cynfyn they exchanged their vows. The words "I do" were declared by both, and a gold ring symbolizing eternal fidelity was placed on Jessa's delicate finger. And then Washburn was lifting her veil and she was closing her eyes as they kissed. A golden halo encompassed them, and many thought the sun shone just a bit brighter in that moment. The crowd of onlookers joyously cheered.

The doors to the cathedral parted for the Nuptial Mass to begin. The bride blushed with happiness. Father Pernal emerged and escorted the newly wed couple into the serene mountain cathedral stylized in marble and wood. Muir stood back and let others enter, waiting for his wife to come to his side. Hand in hand, the earl and countess walked within, both feeling the oneness that they had made of their lives together. For the briefest moment, Muir saw the Reverend Mother Phyla Mary's eyes widen at the sight of Sister Meris entering the cathedral. Muir was going to have a thing or two to say about the previous day's events to the bishop when the celebration was over. For now, he was secure in knowing his ward was safely wed to his brother. He was quite intent that nothing more would befall the couple. In celebratory clothing, the knights and men-at-arms of Lendour, numbering well over two hundred, were interspersed among the guests, ensuring that nothing ill-fated occurred.

* * *

The very last impression upon the coin was of the Earl of Lendour witnessing the nuptial mass for Washburn Iliff Cynfyn and Jessamyn Kyriell. The couple knelt before Bishop Michael and Father Pernal. The house of God was filled with the gaily attired people of Lendour. The sun shone through the clerestory windows, giving a rainbow of glory across the choir. In the eyes of a few, the light seemed to glisten and shimmer as a figure of a man stood translucent before the congregation. Muir blinked and the image was gone. He smiled to himself, knowing who it was that made his own blessing upon the couple.

The duke and duchess, now enfolded within each other's arms, released the memories that fell away from the coin in their joined hands. Richenda sighed, closed her eyes, and snuggled deeper into her husband's shoulder. Alaric held her close for a time, breathing in the scent of her red hair and holding her delicate figure close to him.

"I knew love would prevail," whispered Richenda.

"Ah, you were right, my love. We are not the only ones to find happiness in Lendour. Perhaps we should invite Kelson here to see if those emotions rub off on him," Alaric said with a mischievous smile.

With a light laugh, his love looked up in his eyes, as a sparkle of amusement gleamed there. "I pray for the day when our Kelson will find his true love, and not just a lady forced upon him by the kingdom's needs. I do not suppose that you have any distant relations who we can introduce to him? You come from a strong line of good marriages. Your parents had the gift of love. Both Washburn and Muir managed to find happiness several generations before them. Well, of course there was the incident of Keryell eloping with Stevana. Even though he was said to have abducted her, she was never heard to be displeased by her marriage. And then there is your story, my lord. I dare hope, you have found happiness in your marriage to me. Even though there were many who misunderstood why you married a traitor's widow."

Alaric did not flinch from her words. Instead, he firmly reiterated his true feelings. "I married you because I love you. I love your heart, and your soul, and the children you have borne unto me." He nodded at the sleeping form of his son in the crib near at hand. "I love the boy Brendan that you have brought into our home. He is a testament to the greatness of his mother." Alaric brushed the tear off her cheek and kissed the woman he chose to stand by his side.

After a moment, she whispered, "You must be a descendant of Washburn. I see his passion for life in your eyes."

He sat up straighter and looked at the items on the table before them. "We have yet to prove that. Is there nothing more here that would tell us of Washburn's children?"

"The ring and the cameo will have been Jessa's. The five coins have been viewed in full. The only other thing was this blank parchment enfolded at the bottom of the box." Richenda said softly, unfolding the parchment for him to see the seal inside.

"My love, that is not blank! There are names and dates listed all down the page." Alaric bristled with excitement and began to peruse the sheet.

"But there is nothing there! What is it that you see?" She sat up straighter, confounded by what he saw that she could not.

"Use the family spell I taught you, and see if you can visualize the names." He helped her cast the spell and break the enchantment shielding the ink from her eyes. With instant clarity, black letters formed on the page. An opening paragraph was written in a neat hand, followed by a list of names and dates of the ancestral line of the House of Cynfyn.

_With great sorrow, on this day, the XVII of June, in the year of our Lord ten hundred and thirty-five, I lay to rest the strength of this family, the matriarch who for fifty years has brought peace and joy to the House of Cynfyn. This great Lady, Jessamyn Kyriell de Cynfyn, I commend to the heavens: daughter of the healer Sir Jacuth Kyriell, aunt of Prince Olivier of Tralia, wife of Field Marshal Sir Washburn Cynfyn, healer in her own right and mother of four. May my grandmother's love forever light the path of her descendants. I, Taillefer, first son of Tiegan, third son of Washburn, do honor to the lives of those who have passed before me. May Saint Camber ever bear their souls into the light. _

_Taillefer, 11__th__ Earl of Lendour_

Richenda gasped at the list of names before her. Jessa had four children by Washburn—three sons and a daughter: Kyriell, Walther, Tiegan and Merissa. Kyriell and Tiegan had married and had children of their own. Merissa had married and had children. Walther, it appeared, had never married.

Richenda wanted to imagine that all was well with the family of Cynfyn until that horrific Great War in the year 1025. What a devastating moment in time that battle had been! The Battle of Killingford had taken its toll with the lives of so many men. Whole families had become extinct in that two-day war. The Cynfyn family had not been spared from that atrocity. From the list before her, she counted seven direct male heirs whose lives were lost in that battle. As she counted them, tears fell down her cheeks: the Earl Euan, son of Muir, and his son, Muran. The next heirs to Euan died beside him while protecting the King: Lord Washburn, Washburn's first son Kyriell and two grandsons, Ashtin and Justin, and finally Tiegan, Washburn's third son. Only Washburn's second son Walther survived the battle. Walther became earl but lived only long enough to see the last Cynfyn male heir come of age. At fourteen years old, Taillefer, son of Tiegan, became the eleventh Earl of Lendour. The duchess was aghast at the waste of lives.

Alaric took the scroll and added the names that followed from Taillefer to himself. "I recall most of the dates, but you will have to check me on this," he requested, holding the sheet up for his wife to approve.

"You have it right, my lord," she said, wiping tears from her cheeks. She reviewed the whole list. Not only did the list follow the Cynfyn ancestry, but also it listed Jessamyn's ancestry through her mother's and father's lines. Within that list were the names of the Sovereign Princes of Tralia, and almost as importantly, the Earl of Culdi, Saint Camber himself. She lifted her husband's chin and kissed the lips of the man whose blood ran far richer than anyone had imagined. "I want to believe there was great joy in that couple's lives."

"Life is a mixture of joy and sadness. So long as the joy outweighs the other, then life is well worth living. I see two people overcome the difficulties of their time and prosper. They have shared their story, ensuring that it is not lost in the passage of time. I, for one, appreciate the enlightenment. Names and dates are so drab…."

"_NO!"_

The mental screams of two children resounded within their parents' minds. Richenda stood in shock, but Alaric was already at a run out the door and down the hall. The duchess stared out the window at the garden below. A huge branch of the old oak tree was broken in a heap of twigs and leaves. Both her children were somewhere within the mass. She could not breathe; her mind hurtled through the space to find her son and daughter. They were both there but in shock. Richenda gathered up Kelric in her arms. Fear tensed every muscle in her frame. She had to slow at the stairs, terrified she might lose her footing and injure herself or her youngest. When she reached the garden, Alaric and Derry already had taken some semblance of control. Briony was scared; she had cuts and bruises, but was otherwise uninjured. Derry held her in his arms. Brendan lay across a knee-height garden stone wall, his back arched awkwardly over it, and his legs under a heavy broken tree limb. Richenda's heart sank when she saw her boy lying there.

Alaric already knelt at his stepson's side, his hands encompassing the front and back of the boy's chest. The duke's dilated eyes held the power of his Healing gifts. "He has fractured ribs; thank the Lord his spine is whole. We have to move him to heal him. We must be careful. I do not want to injure him more."

Gaining a mother's strength, Richenda knelt at her son's side her free arm cradling the back of his head. Her surge of energy soothed her son's fear. His pain was diminishing with the concentration Alaric was exerting. Brendan's eyes opened wide and he managed to whisper, "I heard the branch breaking— oh, Briony!—I tried to catch her—is she all right?" The boy projected an image into his mother's mind of Briony jumping into his arms just as the lowest branch came down on top of them.

"Oh my love, my sweet boy, Briony is all right. You're so brave. Be easy now, you'll be all right too."She kissed her son's forehead, sending a wave of reassurance to him.

"I need men to lift this branch," Alaric commanded. "Take it straight up, enough to clear his legs. Derry, help me lift him the moment the branch is clear. We'll go straight up off the stone. Be ready!" Alaric, still in Healing trance, was only partially aware of the castle's men quickly arranging themselves around the large old oak branch.

Derry placed Briony in the hands of her nursemaid. He placed himself at Brendan's opposite side. At a word from Alaric, the men strained to lift the broken tree limb upward. The boy's legs were freed, letting Alaric and Derry carry him up off the wall. Very gingerly, all three adults supported the boy and moved him across to the stone pathway. Brendan stifled a cry, and his mother sat at his shoulder, her right hand on his forehead tempering his pain. She had to lift baby Kelric high in the crook of her left arm, his face resting against her bare neck. This freed her left hand enough to grasp her husband's wrist and then balance her energy with his Healing ability.

Alaric was already realigning the two ribs that had been splintered from the fall. Thank the Lord they did not puncture the lung! Still, there was damage done. Alaric recognized the deep bruising that was even now forming from the impact. Quickly, he deepened his level of trance and poured healing energy into the boy's side. He used the energy his wife offered and took them both down into an even deeper level of healing. That was when Richenda saw the second pair of hands cover Alaric's hands, and the grey-cowled head leaning down toward Brendan. The presence of Saint Camber made her hold her breath. He was, as he had always been, there in the time of need, pouring energy and knowledge into a healer's hands. Alaric healed the last of the bruising. As he did so, Kelric, in his mother's arms, stirred. With an innate family gift, the baby sent healing energies through his mother into his wounded brother. Saint Camber turned his gaze up to the baby and smiled. The apparition faded away as the healing was complete. Both parents were stunned.

Alaric gathered Brendan in his arms and bid Derry to get Briony. "Let us move indoors," he said, willing his family to follow. Once they reached the garden withdrawing room, he sat Richenda and the baby on the long cushioned settle, and placed Brendan there with the boy's head across his mother's lap. Brendan's eyes were now open and his pain was gone, but the terror of the moment remained. His mother was the best for calming those fears. The father then enfolded his daughter in his arms and sat with her in the chair next to his wife. He quickly Healed her cuts and wrenched wrist, then held her tightly against his shoulder. She did not cry; she was being brave for her brother's sake.

"I jumped on the branch and it broke," his daughter said. Fear shone in her eyes.

"Uncle Seandry told you not to do that, didn't he?"

"Yes." The three-year-old put her hand to her mouth.

"If Uncle Seandry asks you to stop, then you need to stop," he told her, his face close to hers. "Can you stop when you are asked to do so?"

"Yes," she said, tears starting in the corners of her eyes.

"Oh my love, you don't need to cry, your papa has you safe." He kissed his daughter's cheeks. "I love you, my poppet," he said, calming her. Alaric reached his arm across to his wife, reassuring himself that she had both her sons in her strong, caring arms. "I love you too, my darling," he said in a soft whisper.

She held his hand tight. "Alaric, oh my love, I…." Her words trailed off for a moment as tears of released tension fell on her cheeks. Not finding her voice, her mind softly reached out to touch his. _"I need no further proof to know that you are a descendant of a Healer named Rhys Thuryn and his wife Evaine, who was the daughter of our Saint Camber. I had considered the possibility before, but now the truth is revealed. The gift of Healing runs strong in your blood and this gift has been discovered in our son. I think now I understand even more the greatness of the man that I married." _

Alaric, still holding his daughter in his steady arms, he moved over to the settle and slipped next to Richenda's side. His arm embraced her shoulders and his mind embraced his whole family. His wife nestled into his reassuring warmth. Her love deepened even more for this strong, loyal, loving man.

He was her miracle!


End file.
